


i sommersi e i salvati

by Maharetchan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Depression, Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Healing, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Post 3x13, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Recovery, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:11:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 56,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>some of them move on and mourn their dead.<br/>some come alive only after death comes to visit them.</p><p>a post "the wrath of the lamb" characters study.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i salvati

**Author's Note:**

> Hannibal/Will is in chapter 2.  
> Leave a comment if you want; or come talk to me at arabellestrange on tumblr.

1\. Molly and Freddie

There is something strangely akin to relief in Molly, when the person who comes to her house to tell her about Will's death is not Jack Crawford, but a woman in a tight and stern tailored black suit who introduces herself as Kade Prurnell.

 

A part of her wishes it had been him, instead; but then she remembers the hunting rifle hidden under the bed, how her fingers would be hitching with the desperate desire to go get it, and thanks God again.

 

“Mrs. Graham, we're sorry to inform you that your husband Will has been killed in action while trying to apprehend Francis Dolarhyde, who we believe was the serial killer known as the Tooth Fairy, the same that attacked you and your son. We are currently still trying to locate his body, but so far nothing.”

 

There's a long intake of breath followed by an equally long exhale.

 

Molly nods after a while, with her eyes closed, then lowers them, putting her face between her hands and rubbing her temples. But she doesn't cry: she refuses to in front of her, in front of all the strangers that surround her.

 

Or maybe she just ran out of tears the first time she had to bury her husband; at least she had a body to cry on back then, a grave to visit.

 

It hits her how this simple concept is the summary of her marriage to Will: in the end, he took everything and left her with nothing but a pack of dogs and a wardrobe full of worn out clothes.

 

Molly gave and gave and gave: she tried so hard to understand, to heal, to support, to wrap herself around that broken man like a band aid, desperate to keep him together. And he took everything, drained her to the last drop, swallowed her whole and spit out her bones. She loved him, his gentle smile, his harsh scent of fear and the way he could be at the same time funny and unsettling: but whatever demon he had inside his heart, got the best of him in the end, devoured her sacrifices, and all she got in return is a new overwhelming sense of loss.

 

“Your husband and I didn't always see eye to eye, but I respected him. He died bravely, doing his duty and trying to save lives. You should be proud of him.”

 

Those words just set her off like a time bomb that was just quietly waiting to explode: she starts laughing, almost hysterically, and no matter how hard she tries, she just can't stop, like that's the only way she can find to expel from her body and her soul the venom that sipped into her, the rage and the pain and the grief that are poisoning her. Her eyes fill with tears and her throat is coarse and dry. Yet she keeps laughing until Kade leaves.

 

She lets it all out: in her unclear vision, she has the impression of seeing rivers of black blood flooding out of her; she spits it all out like a catharsis, an act that leaves her clean and pure once again.

 

I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.

 

She says over and over again, because yes, she knew: she knew she was going to lose Will the second he accepted to go back to the FBI. Yet told him to go anyway: she believed in them, in him, but her dreams was crushed cruelly and she was left with nothing.

 

Molly keeps repeating it until Walter comes and hugs her, holding her close. He doesn't smell like Will at all: and she inhales his scent deeply, letting it lull her.

 

\---

 

Walter's reaction to the whole ordeal is a quiet nod, while she tells him in a hushed voice that Will is dead; he looks away from her and takes a deep breath, his eyes scanning the room like he expects something, or someone, to pop out of the walls and jump the two of them if they dare to distract.

 

He doesn't cry, doesn't ask how it happened. Truth is, he looks relieved. The shock overcomes him and freezes his reaction to a stunned expression of incredulity.

 

Molly waits for the dam of his emotions to break down for days, for the pain to catch up with him and hit him with the full weight of the loss they just suffered. For her, it's hard to get out of be in the morning sometimes, because she feels paralyzed and numb with grief, dumbstruck by the emptiness she feels inside.

 

But she does it anyway, for him.

 

At night, she still misses the warmth of Will's body next to hers and the room feels colder than it ever did before.

 

One day, she sits him down on the couch, holding his hands.

 

“Hey, buddy: how are you holding up? Are you okay?”

 

Walter seems confused for a moment: but then he nods, and Molly takes a very deep breath, trying to brace herself against whatever reaction she'll get from him, ready to hold him close to her chest and dry his tears.

 

“It's okay to be sad, to cry: we both miss Will a lot. And we didn't get to say goodbye to him... it hurts, I know.”

 

He looks ashamed, lowering his eyes and holding her hands harder than he was doing before, not looking at her, but biting his lip nervously.

 

“Mom, is it bad that I'm... glad he's gone? Not that he's dead, I'm sad about that. But just... that he won't come back to us?”

 

Her only reply is to hug him and hold him close to her chest, feeling his tears through the layers of her clothes, his sulking and tremors against her body. She says nothing else. And truth is, there's nothing she could say that would change how he feels.

 

\---

 

When the dogs come back home from the vet, she gives half of them away to animal services: alone, she can't take care of so many.

 

They assure her they'll try to find good homes to all of them, but Molly knows some of them might end up being put down in a few months, because they're old, patchy, stray dogs no one wants. It's the most terrible thought possible, yet it's also her only choice.

 

Watching Winston being led away on a leash while he keeps glancing back to the house, like he expects to see Will reappear any second, it's a whole new kind of pain that runs through her heart; but she bears it anyway. Walter says nothing, he doesn't talk about what happened at all; but he rarely leaves her alone and tells her he loves her way more than he usually does.

 

He sleeps in bed with her, holding her like he used to do when he was a baby: she clings to his love, feeling everything else crumble to pieces all around her.

 

Molly endures that too.

 

\---

 

She waits for almost three months before finally getting rid of his things: there was a lingering hope in keeping them, a desire to believe he might be alive somewhere, just waiting for the right moment to come back.

 

But when she asks herself what she would do in that case... she doesn't have an answer. Do I love him enough to take him back despite everything? It's almost a relief to know she'll never have to know.

 

Molly puts all his clothes and objects in boxes without even looking at them, without stopping to remember details about their life together, to hold them in her hands one last time, inhaling his scent still clinging to the fabric or caressing the patterns and picturing in her mind how they looked on him.

 

Those are the last relics of the last two years of her life, spent with a man she loved even though she didn't know him, who was so broken no one, not even her, could put him back together, and who self destroyed in the name of a design she was never part of. He left her behind, with Walter, the dogs, and a house that screams his name at every turn.

 

She burns everything, watching it all go up in flames: the smoke is bitter and suffocating, and she keeps coughing while tears stream down her face. But she doesn't look away until the fire dies and nothing but ashes remain around her.

 

Her life burns, and her memories of Will are like leaves, carried away by the wind.

 

And in her own way, she knows she's letting them all go to start anew.

 

\---

 

Freddie Lounds arrives unexpectedly one morning, her red hair shining in the sunlight: she doesn't seem happy to be there. Molly wonders how long it would take to go get the rifle, but then decides that wasting bullets on her would be a pretty stupid choice. In the end, she's not even the worst of them.

 

“What are you doing here? I won't talk to you. I won't sell my story just so you can make some money off my pain. So I suggest you go back and never come back.”

 

Her voice is harsh and it somehow make the woman in front of her flinch, like she was suddenly whipped hard across the face. She shakes her head; Molly approaches her, putting herself between her and the house.

 

“That's not why I'm here. Graham... your husband Will... he gave me this before he... well, he told me to give it to you eventually. In case he wasn't going to come back.”

 

Molly laughs in her face, disbelief spreading across her face.

 

“And why would he do that? He hated you, you were nothing to him.”

 

At that, Freddie laughs, suddenly drained of all the tension she was bottling all the way to her house. Molly frowns, not sure what to make of that: she could leave, go back inside; and yet she doesn't and isn't even sure why.

 

“That's why he did it, because I don't care about him; yet I still kept his secrets. And my promises. I might be a lying piece of shit, but at least I have some integrity left. Look, you can believe me or not, I'm still going to leave this to you. What you do with it, it's not my problem.”

 

The woman hands her a letter: it's sealed. Molly can tell it was never opened: her name is written on the back in Will's handwriting.

 

“You didn't open it to peak inside and see what it says?”

 

Freddie shrugs, but smiles softly.

 

“It's not for me to see.”

 

She holds it in her hands for hours, trying to decide what to do with it: there's a weight in that little piece of paper, and Molly loses herself imagining all the words written on it, his excuses, his lies, his truths that will hurt her even more than all of those combined. And yet it's the very last thing he left for her, in the hands of a woman that perhaps, in the end, deserved way more respect she was given.

 

She tries to remember the Will she thought she knew, the one that would smile at her and make her believe this was happiness, that what they had meant something for both of them. But what she sees in her mind, it's the one that abandoned her.

 

In the end, Molly burns it without opening it: because she doesn't want to be lied to anymore, she doesn't want to excuse or hurt for something she wanted so desperately to create, but that was destroyed by the very person she wanted to build it with.

 

You're dead, she tells herself as she watches the paper crumble under the weight and the heat of the fire, consumed until it disappears completely.

 

You're dead: I won't let you haunt me.

 

Then she calls her son and tells him to pack his things: they're moving.

 

\---

 

Sugarloaf Key is warm and sticky and beautiful. 

 

The sun shines on her and Walter nearly everyday, leaving them tan and deliciously tired at night. He's happy there, with the sea and the beach and a whole new world of experiences in front of him.

 

The cold of their old house and life is forgotten sooner than later: Molly opens a dress shop, makes friends, detaches herself from the frenzy that follows Will's and Lecter's death. She leaves no number behind, no means to contact her.

 

Her life starts anew in a foreign land where she feels more at home than she ever did before.

 

Molly's scar becomes paler and paler over the years, a very distant memory.

 

And in time, it fades completely.

 

\-----

 

2\. Alana and Margot

David adapts quickly to Barcelona and their new life there: he's like Margot when it comes to that, he can make the most out of any situation. Alana smiles at him as they both observe how the child explores the new house with his stuffed bunny in his hands.

 

Margot holds her from behind and gently kisses the nape of her neck, wrapping herself around Alana as if she wants at all costs to shield her from whatever harm could come to her: she closes her eyes and relaxes for a split second, able to forget the dangers that lie beyond their door in the warmth of her skin and in the smile of their child.

 

“We're safe here. We'll be okay.”

 

Alana tries to nod and reply, but the words die in her mouth: she sees herself and Margot with shards of glasses in their eyes, transformed into the fantasies of a madman, David dead in a pool of blood. She sees Hannibal behind every corner, feels his ghostly breath hanging over her.

 

She grabs Margot's hand so tight she almost hurts her, but it's all she can do not to fall apart. Nothing was ever spared to them, and she's angry at the whole world because of it, for giving them moments of hope and peace before taking them all away, destroying the life they had and forcing them to start from scratches once again.

 

“I know we will.”

 

She says it anyway, because Margot deserves to hear it, even though she can tell she's not convincing.

 

The news of Hannibal and Will's demise is at the same time a relief and the staggering realization that it could never end in any other way other than in a bloodbath. Baltimore is drenched to the bone in the blood of innocent and guilty victims alive, it's painted in their screams and tears.

 

Alana thinks of Beverly Katz and Abigail Hobbs, their death so senseless and without resolution; she thinks about the scars on hers and Margot's bodies, of the stillborn child they had to bury, of the men they had to kill. She thinks of Will's ultimate sacrifice.

 

She feels saturated in pain, filled to the brim and ready to explode. It's Margot and David who keep her together.

 

They stay in Barcelona.

 

\---

 

“Sometimes I can't help asking myself: what if they're not dead? What if they're out there, somewhere? Just... waiting.”

 

Alana can feel Margot stir next to her, hears the woman take a deep breath and tense: she knows how she sounds; delusional and lost in her own paranoia, but says nothing , just waits for her to reply.

 

Margot gently caresses her hair, running her fingers through it like they're made of the purest silk, kisses her lips and then rubs her back, holding her close: she smells like home, like safety and the only happiness she can tell to have experienced in her life. And the thought of something tearing them apart, of death visiting them again and destroy all they built it's unbearable.

 

Alana kisses her back and drowns in her arms, placing her head right above her heart, feeling it under her ear, with its soft beat lulling her.

 

“For the longest time, I thought Mason was going to come back: we killed him, and yet I could never quite believe we were free, that he was really gone. I lived my days in fear: picturing him reappearing out of the blue and hurting us, taking you away from me. But he's dead, I accepted it overtime. And so will you, one day, when you'll be ready.”

 

“You never told me before.”

 

Margot smiles and kisses her forehead, but says nothing. Alana wants to believe hers so desperately.

 

The thing is, while they walk down the streets, she always thinks she can see them moving through the crowd, their faces appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye: they're ghosts haunting her, casting their shadows over her family. Ghosts she still cannot chase away.

 

Because they're unfulfilled prophecies, promises not kept.

 

Alana can only hope they'll remain that way.

 

\---

 

It's easy for her to find a job there at the local university: going back to teaching is a blessing and she didn't realize how much she missed it until she stepped away from her role as Hannibal's guardian for the last time.

 

They settle into an easy peace quickly enough to allow them all to forget, to move on. She goes to work without having to worry about what she'll find there, in what state she'll return home and how wrecked and broken she's going to feel after having to deal with monsters and nightmares.

 

She kisses Margot goodbye in the morning, while she's making breakfast for David, kisses both of them when she comes back, and, in time, she stops looking behind herself constantly, afraid of what she might see in the crowd. 

 

Of who.

 

Alana watches David grow up carefree and happy, more than they could ever hope; they run on the beach or take him on long holidays, and the boy smiles all the time, holding both their hands and exploring the world around him without being scared of anything. He's caring, gentle, hugging them whenever he has the chance, as they whisper soothing words to him and tell him how much they love him.

 

She can watch Margot's wounds heal, serenity and happiness appearing on her face for the first time in her life. At night, she reads for her, cuddles her in her arms and kisses until she falls asleep; Alana makes love to her quietly, wakes her up with sweet words hushed against her skin, holds her hand and kisses her fingers so gently the other woman melts into her eyes.

 

“I never thought I could have something so good in my life; I didn't think I was allowed to hope for it.”

 

Margot is caressing David's hair as he sleeps curled in her lap; Alana nods and carefully touches her face, kisses her cheek and puts her head on her shoulder.

 

“Me neither.”

 

In time, they bury their ghosts, who disappear in the darkness of their forgotten past.

 

\---

 

Jack comes to visit them more than a year after they moved: he looks older, like he's withering right in front of her eyes, and when Alana hugs him she can hear him sigh in a deep, barely contained relief that breaks her heart.

 

“You look good, so do Margot and the boy. You have a good life here.”

 

Alana smiles, but keeps observing him like she expects to see him disappear or break in a million piece. The FBI forced him to retire after the Dolarhyde-Lecter fiasco and she can't help asking herself if he didn't spend the last year trying to find Will, in a mad quest for a dead man.

 

Sometimes she still thinks about him: the man she could not save because, in the end, he refused every chance that fate threw at him, that choose his fate himself. Yet, she blames herself, and knows Jack does too.

 

Hannibal Lecter had his claws in all of them, cut them deep with them and left them covered in a thick layer of scars: and it took Will's ultimate sacrifice to bring him down.

 

She holds Jack's hand gently, watches him play with David, invites him for dinner every night. The man is haunted by many more ghosts than Alana, and his are harder to chase away. She tries to help him anyway.

 

“You could have a good life too, Jack, if only you could forgive yourself.”

 

The man nods vaguely.

 

“Do you ever have the feeling he's still alive? That they both are?”

 

“I used to see them in the crowd all the time: a man in plaid shirt and a patchy beard, walking hand in hand with one in a tailored suit. But those are just fantasies, Jack; it's our guilt and our fears speaking for us. They're dead. And it wasn't out fault: Will made his own choices, there's no point in letting them bury us too.”

 

The man stay still and silent for a long time: all the anger and distrust she used to feel towards him evaporate and disappear through the thick layers of genuine sympathy and closeness; they buried so many people together, they buried their own old lives and they still bleed for it.

 

Jack covers his eyes with a hand, shaking while doing so, and for the first time in her life, Alana sees him cry.

 

\---

 

Jack rents a house next to theirs.

 

In time, they all heal.


	2. i sommersi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a third part concerning Will and Hannibal life together on the run; I have a lot of ideas for it, so tell me if you'd be interested in it. And if you have any suggestion, I'd love to hear them! ^^

3\. Hannibal and Will

“Did you intend for us to die?”

Those are the first words Hannibal says to him after their fall that Will actually registers and manages to understand on a conscious level: everything before was swallowed by the white noise of his own pain.

They're both lying on a dirty bed, wrapped in sheets stained with blood: Hannibal isn't touching him and the distance between the two of them feels wider than it actually is, like the ocean is still separating them and keeping them apart; he just nods. There's no point in trying to lie: he can barely breathe, let alone do anything else. His face is throbbing, his arms are numb and his whole body is perpetually tensed in spasms of suffering.

“Yes.”

Hannibal closes his eyes as his face twists into a mask of fury, betrayal and disappointment that lasts for a long moment. They laid out their plan so openly and simply back in the lodge: and yet the man still hoped, still needed Will to desire to run away with him, instead of trying to kill each other one last time.

Will wants to tell him that it doesn't mean that what happened is not real, that their newfound connection was just an act; but only that he's tired, exhausted and skinned of all the will to live he had left. And dying with him had the poetic taste of closure in his mind.

There's a dangerous flash in his eyes, a moment where he's sure Hannibal's truly going to kill him; but it passes surprisingly quickly, probably because the man is too worn out to even raise a hand.

They're patched up so badly every stitch and bandage seems to be doing more harm than good, broken in so many ways Will can't even count them anymore: yet they are alive. He doesn't know how that makes him feel just yet, mostly because his body is too busy hurting to register other sensations.

The man next to him inhales as deeply as he can before moaning in pain, and Will can just stare at him, with absolutely nothing else in his mind but the very sight of him. It burns him, it tears him apart and he keeps letting it happen.

Hannibal, in the end, smiles; but it doesn't reach his eyes.

“Well, it's good to know you remained unpredictable until the very end.”

\---

Will has very few and sparse clear recollections of the first days of their recovery: most of them are of an acute and mind blowing pain.

They hide in a shack lost in the mountains, a place so far away from civilization that even to him it feels excessive, so isolated it feels claustrophobic: at least there's water in there, and wood for the fire.

Mostly, they sleep, going through one fever dream after the other, with hallucinations and nightmares suffocating them.

He can see himself with incredible clarity at times, like he is separated from his own body and floating above it, watching himself and Hannibal lying into each other's arms. The man's labored breathing is the only sound he can hear, his hands on his skin all he can feel above the thundering pain. The separation between reality and fantasy is disappearing under his fingers.

Will can't even bring himself to wish they were dead, can't even mourn what he lost in this last attempt to free the two of them of the other and the world of both of them. He failed, that's all that matters. 

He sees Molly in his nightmares/dreams at times, beautiful in the morning light, with the dogs running with her through the frozen fields: he wants to touch her, to tell her to wait for him, not to leave him alone. But she disappears in a glimmering blast that blinds him.

And when he comes back to himself, there's only Hannibal there with him.

\---

They're almost running out of their stolen medical and food supplies when Chiyoh appears, quiet as a shadow, solemn as a death sentence. She doesn't look different at all, even after three years, but there's something about her, a new light in her eyes, that proves that separating herself from Hannibal's darkness did her some good.

Will wants to say something, but she barely spares him a glance to leave a bag in front of him, before disappearing into the bedroom where Hannibal is resting, locking the door behind her. There's fresh clothes, food and blankets in the bag, and he takes a long shower that makes him almost scream in pain before indulging in what look like luxuries to him now.

While he's alone, he tries to think about Molly, to picture her crying for him, locked in her bedroom and unable to leave the bed, crushed under the weight of her grief. A selfish part of him finds some solace in that illusion, even though he knows she would never do that: she'll move on, she'll recover from this.

He doesn't want her to: in the confused state of mind he's in, his brain roasted by pain and drugs, he wants her to wither away waiting for him. And the disgusts that fills his stomach at that thought is enough to shake him out of it. The image disappears, and all he sees is the Atlantic roaring under him and Hannibal, the waves engulfing them and swallowing them whole, before deciding to spit them out and leave them to meet whatever destiny awaits them on land.

He dozes off and dreams of shattered mirrors, of dragons devouring him, and of Hannibal's arms wrapped around him, keeping him together even though he's falling apart too.

Chiyoh reappears hours later, wiping blood off her hands and looking at him like she can't decide how annoyed she is he's still alive; yet, she smiles at him as politely as she can.

“I fixed his stitches and gave him an IV of fluids. Now he is sleeping; he needs to rest and get his strength back. Do you want me to take a look at your wounds as well?”

Will lets out a coarse laugh, but his cheek hurts so bad he has to stop.

“The last time I saw you, you pushed me off a train and shot me.”

Chiyoh smiles, absolutely unfazed by his accusation: she's more like Hannibal than he ever thought before. He was so focused on projecting on her, on wanting her to look exactly like his fantasies that he could see nothing of the real her. And now he knows it was a mistake.

“Yes, I did. You deserved it.”

“And what does he deserve then?”

The woman shakes her head and pulls out a new first aid kit from another one of her bags.

“If you think I am here to pass judgment or that that is what I was doing with you, you could not be more mistaken: it was about survival. You were a threat and I tried to neutralize you in any way possible; in an another occasion, I could have helped you instead. And it is the same now: you can let me help you and live, or you can keep dwelling in your nightmares, dining with your ghosts and let yourself die. Your choice.”

Will nods vaguely, accepting the weight of living once again.

\---

“It's going to scar badly.”

The woman is busy with the gash on his cheek, so Will can't even snort or laugh at the deadpan tone in her voice. He just takes a breath as deep as the wound allows, resisting the urge to pull away.

“I'm covered in scars already; one more isn't going to make a difference.”

Chiyoh nods: there's a very vague hint of sympathy in her eyes, but it's the same you'd feel for a dying animal you have no intention to rescue. And maybe that's exactly what he is: he told Hannibal he was fine with not saving himself: and now he's dead for everyone except for the two people in this house: in a way it's freeing; he doesn't have to pretend anymore, there are no strings attached to him that chain him to his old life. 

But in another it reminds him that now he'll be forever linked to Hannibal, in one way or another.

“It could prove to be useful: no one is going to recognize you like this. Congratulations on your death, by the way; I wonder how your wife is reacting to the notion of having lost her husband once again.”

Will, for a split second, feels the desire to close his hands around her neck and squeeze; but he also knows he wouldn't be fast enough, that she's just teasing him to see where his sore spots are; so he says nothing for the longest time.

He knows that there are a number of possibilities opening up in front of him: he could go anywhere he wanted, with a fresh start. With or without Hannibal, it wouldn't matter: this is the best chance at building a life for himself he'll ever have; he thought his life with Molly was it, but he was still prisoner of the old Will, of the nightmares that wouldn't leave him even when he was awake.

He loved her, and he wanted so bad for this love to be strong enough to erase his feelings towards Hannibal, the pull he felt towards him; but it wasn't and all he has now is a new set of scars and decisions to make. Only he feels too numb to even start thinking about answers, about making plans: all he wants to do is slip into the oblivion of sleep for the rest of his days, to be dragged under by its tendrils and drown.

Chiyoh sighs.

“I could go see how she is doing, if you wanted.”

“And why would you do that? Out of the goodness of your heart? Or because you want to relish in the ruins of my life? It would be fair; I destroyed your life, now you'd get to see mine destroyed as well. Almost poetic.”

There is a long moment of silence that stretches all around the two of them, almost freezing them on the spot, and in which guilt catches up with him incredibly quickly, like a kick in his stomach: he's so broken nothing makes sense inside of him anymore, all the wires are crossed and his thoughts are out of control.

Is this the real me? Who I was under the layers of civilization and restrains that Hannibal peeled off of me? The thought makes him shudder and he can taste bile in the back of his mouth.

But Chiyoh is unfazed: she smiles instead.

“You should never spit on a kind offer; it makes you rude. And you do not matter enough to me, to make me want to enjoy your sufferings. But, if you care for my opinion, you should let go of the past, of who you used to be: take this opportunity, start a new life. We are very rarely given one like yours.”

He wants to scream that he doesn't want a new life: that all he wants is Molly, Walter and the dogs back, to return to the house they shared and grow old with her, serene and free of monsters and demons. Free of Hannibal Lecter.

The truth, of course, it's not so simple: he wants the freedom his death gives him way more than he wants to go back, because what would wait for him there is a family in ruin and the ghost of the Red Dragon hanging on it, like a death sentence.

Molly deserves more than a man who can only half love her, who will never be free of the haunted mansion that is his soul. And he deserves a peace that doesn't come with the price of countless lies told over and over, until he'll start believing them too.

But of course, the most unspeakable truth is that he doesn't want a life without Hannibal.

“Maybe I don't deserve it.”

“None of us did: and yet here we are.”

He says nothing mostly because he knows there's nothing to say: for a while, as she finishes patching him up, he tries to imagine himself in a completely new world, one where everything he knew before is dead forever. Will Graham is dead, and he must start to deal with the fact.

“How's your life now? Where have you been in the last three years?”

Chiyoh sighs, and then looks at him for a long moment, with deafening silence all around them. There's something about her that makes her look always removed from her surroundings, like she's there and not there at the same time. He used to think it was the result of her isolation, but maybe it's not, it's something much deeper and stronger than that.

But he can't put his finger on what it is exactly.

“You should concern yourself with your own life, not mine.”

\---

He barely sees Hannibal while she's there; and perhaps it's a good thing. Separation clears his head, but at the same time fills him with a strange kind of longing he had to suppress for so long, but that now can run free through his vein like the sweetest kind of poison.

Will isn't sure if he wants to kiss Hannibal or kill him, if what he feels is just the emotional backlash of losing everything once again or old feelings finally coming to lights.

In his dreams, Molly transforms into Hannibal most of the times, then goes back to being herself, smiling down on him and telling him it'll be all right. When Hannibal is the one who wins the struggle inside his mind, he says nothing. It seems to Will is has been forever since he heard his voice.

He wakes up with tears drying on his cheeks, and with Chiyoh's eyes fixed on him.

Will closes them again and turns to the other side, wrapping himself in his blankets until the outside world disappears.

\---

It takes them a long time to recover enough to move away from the shack to go hide in another, much better furnished chalet.

It's so quiet around them that Will can almost bring himself to pretend they're the only two people left in the world.

He can pretend there's nothing else that exists, that the whole planet is a wasteland inhabited by just the two of them: he didn't give up anything, there isn't something he left behind, mutilating himself of any last possibility of hope and happiness to try to do one last act of attempted goodness. He chained himself to the devil, for good this time, and the devil took everything.

Only, and he realizes it suddenly one night, as he observes him trash and moan in pain in his sleep, Hannibal is not the devil. 

The man takes longer than him to overcome his injuries and get better: he can barely eat or drink for days, sleeps like a dead man and there are so many occasions Will could take advantage of to kill him for real this time, so many absolute moments of weakness and helplessness.

I could go back home, to Molly and Walter. To my dogs. To my old life and be finally free of you this time. His hands hang on the pillow, ready to push it on his face until he'll stop struggling.

He lets them all pass; instead, he curls at his side, wrapping him into his arms and whispering to him that it will all pass, that they'll be okay. Hannibal sighs in relief at hearing his voice, caresses his face like a blind man trying desperately to make sense of the world around him.

There's a tenderness in him that goes hand in hand with the sadistic pleasure he feels in torturing him, in watching him break under the pressure of his hands pressing into his flesh and bones until they start to break.

They can hold each other through the nights, finding comfort in the bond they share, but as soon as the sun comes up, old angers slither back between them, spreading everywhere, into every crevice of their bodies like a oil spill that poisons and taints everything it touches, contaminating it forever. They fight in vicious and cruel ways, spitting venom on each other and watching it corroding the other's flesh and soul, leaving even deeper marks that any of their wounds could ever.

Their bodies heal, but everything else is still festering under the skin; and the only way to get rid of all that seems to be cutting as deep as they can, watch each other bleed even more.

Hannibal doesn't feel exactly like the same person he used to be at times: three years of prison sharpened his cruel wit and exasperated his vitriol; and the physical pain, as able as he is to keep it under control, doesn't help. They look at each other like they are old friends who, after so many years of separation, are like strangers learning how to navigate their relationship all over again from scratches.

Will feels drained all the time, emptied of anything he can cling to to keep himself afloat: it's hard to rebuild yourself when you barely have the energy to breathe.

Hannibal comes for him one night, bringing along a bottle of whiskey neither of them should be drinking considering on how much medications they are. They do it anyway, of course, because they need to disappear in that soft and foggy feeling it will bring them if they drink enough, they need to forget how much they're hurting and how painful it is to look at each other knowing how deeply they have destroyed their own lives in the name of a sick love that rips them apart.

The alcohol makes his head spin, clouding him mind: there's such a deep and sore pain inside his heart, and he's not sure he can endure it for much longer. He looks at Hannibal for the longest time, just staring at him like he wants to pierce through him with his eyes and erode his skin and bones until he'll be able to open him up and crawl inside of him, where at least he might manage to make sense of what he feels.

He looks... weak, in a way Will had never thought he could look: he breathes so very slowly not to upset his healing wounds, and there's a pallor about him that reminds him just how mortal and brittle he can be too. Three years in prison don't prepare you to fight the Red Dragon and survive a fall into the Atlantic: a part of him wants to hold his hand, kiss it and allow him to take him into his arms, wrapping them both together.

“We're a fucking wreck; I'm not sure what's keeping us together anymore...”

They stare at each other for a long time, counting their scars, imaginary running their fingers on every wound and digging them deep enough to open them up again: Will can feel something mounting inside of him, an unhealthy desire to kiss him hard enough to bruise his mouth, but at the same tenderly, to soothe him.

Then Hannibal, very subtly, starts laughing. And Will follows: it's the most intimate moment they have shared since killing Dolarhyde, and no matter how much it hurts, they keep doing it until they have tears in their eyes.

For one moment, for the slip second it lasts, Will can pretend they are everything they'll never be able to be, that he can erase their history from his mind and let this one moment shine alone; Hannibal has a light in his eyes when he talks to him that weights on top of him, but that makes him feel loved like never before. He's not sure how much of his vision is Stockholm Syndrome mixed with the side effects of drugs and booze. Or if it's genuine feelings he kept buried for too long. 

Their relationship is equally made of cruelty and worship: but Will is never sure who's supposed to be the divinity and who the priest.

“Yes, indeed we are. Our relationship only seems to be able to evolve through shedding blood: usually ours.”

Will takes a very deep breath and rubs his eyes, feeling the fatigue of just keep on surviving crashing back on him and strangling him. Hannibal is the poison that destroyed his life, whatever goodness there was in it, that eradicated peace and love from it to make scorched earth all around him. Yet, he's the only person who truly saw him.

“Maybe we should have just died. Do you ever think about it? I know you're a survivor, that no matter what happens, what you lose, you'll try to stay alive, but... do you ever wish for it all to stop so you could just rest and forget?”

Hannibal thinks about it for the longest time.

“No. I never did; and, maybe, one day you'll understand why as well.”

Will isn't sure that moment is ever going to come.

\---

It's hard to keep track of the passing of time when all the days so closely resemble each other: years could pass and Will isn't sure he would notice. Everything is so still, so infinitely quiet and silent in a way that burns through the layers of their skins, wearing them out. 

He feels restless, and the residues of pain still hanging on him make everything worse. Hannibal, at least apparently, doesn't show any sign of it, and spends his days recuperating at a slow pace; but Will knows him: and he can feel frustration boiling inside of him, catching the little twitching of his mouth and how his hands never seem to be able to keep still. They are both too tired to do anything other than sometimes taking that frustration onto each other.

But it's not enough to let it all out.

One day, he ventures in the small town at the bottom of the valley: his face is still half bandaged and he's sure no one's going to recognize him. It's his first time meeting people since his death.

They look at him like they're at the same time scared and fascinated by this stranger suddenly appearing into their lives to spice up their routin, as if his sufferings only exist for their benefits: there's nowhere he'd fit him now, no place that could take him in and accept him wholly; it's the look on those faces that shakes him out of torpor he had fallen in.

Nothing is ever going to be the same, he'll never go back to the life he used to have: and it's like his mind is finally letting go of the last illusions it still had, the last dreams of returning to Molly, to be Will Graham once again.

The papers he buys tell him they have been secluded away for nearly three months: there is, of course, no mention of them or of Dolarhyde in them; they're old news already, the public has moved on to much more interesting and fresh nightmares. He will wonders how many people actually mourned him, cried for him, were guilt ridden over his tragedy: or if his whole life was forgotten as soon as he stopped existing for them.

He crawls back to Hannibal feeling disgusted and sickened by the experience, getting into bed with him and allowing the man to gently caress his face through the bandage, to wrap himself all around him.

Hannibal is warm, real, welcoming in ways no one is ever going to be towards him ever again. It's the worst kind of irony, that the person that tore his life apart and set fire to it, it's also the only person he can rebuild it with.

Will closes his eyes as a tear runs down his cheek, wiped away immediately by him: he tries to imagine Molly touching him instead, her small, delicate, but strong and callous hands sliding all over his skin.

But, as time passes, his memories of her become foggier and more distant every day: and he does nothing to hold on to them. He can remember her face, the sound of her voice, but not the feelings those things evoked in him: there's no light or peace in them, just a heavy sense of loss he tries desperately to escape.

Instead, he imprints how it feels to be touched by Hannibal into his brain, seals it there and allows the imagine to come back to him time and time again.

He no longer feels dirty for indulging.

One days, after gulping down nearly a whole bottle of whiskey and feeling so depressed the only other activity he can think of is hanging himself, Will peels off the bandage on his cheek and stares at his scarred face for the first time: truth be told, it's not as bad as it could've been; Dolarhyde's knife was sharp and the cut is a clear and straight line that runs from his cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. It'll be mostly covered by his beard, once it'll start growing back. 

But still, he fails to reconcile the reflection in the mirror with his memories of himself. The skin is thick and tough under his fingers, and the gash sharpens his features in an unpleasant way that makes him shudder.

I'm not myself anymore, even my body has changed: he feels like an experiment, like a freak with no identity anymore, blindly navigating a foreign world that rejects him and no longer recognizes him as a human being. Whoever he is now, it's still an embryo growing up in a distorted womb that can only give birth to a monster.

Yet he doesn't look away: he won't until he'll be able to accept what he sees, who he sees, even thought just the act is cruelly skinning him alive.

That's how Hannibal finds him, who knows how many hours later: still trying to make sense of who he's becoming. Will lets out an ugly laugh at seeing him: he's the responsible for every single one of his scars and he probably relishes in the sight of them.

He wants to have the strength to beat him to death, to mark him even deeper so he will knows how it feels: but all he can do is grabbing the sink hard enough to turn his knuckles white and wait for him to say something, anything at all that will shake him, that will snap him back to the reality they're sharing. Hannibal is a marked man as well, probably even more than him. How much have they done to each other... it's a wonder they're still standing.

“How do I look?”

Hannibal sighs deeply, as he approaches Will and turns his face towards him, so he can take a good look at it: sometimes, when he allows himself to sink deep enough into his thoughts and feelings, allowing himself to become him, it's astonishing how beautiful Will can look in his eyes. And that's how he feels now under his scrutiny.

The man looks at him like he's absolutely perfect, like there's nothing wrong with him: and that feeling of complete acceptance is intoxicating, like a shot of pure heroin running through his veins and frying his brain until he'll not be able to live without it anymore. It's the most arousing and fucked up feeling, and yet he's already dependent on it.

Will relaxes in his hands, gives up on fighting and even his bitterness sinks down the drain, replaced by a fierce need that makes something stir inside of him.

“You look beautiful.”

Will wants to argue so desperately, to fight against words that sound too kind and too honest coming from him. He can feel his eyes fill with tears he tries as hard as he can to hold back. But one escapes and runs through his cheek, with Hannibal gently wiping it away. 

"I'm disfigured, scarred so badly I'll never be able to hide it. How can you find me beautiful?"

"Because our scars remind us that the past was real, and that we survived it. I am grateful for each one of them. And I will love yours as much as I love my own."

Hannibal closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as Will reaches out and places his head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, like he did before their fall.

And in that moment, he believes him.

\---

When Hannibal feels strong enough, they go for a few hikes in the mountains that surround the lodge: he has to sit down often to recover, still not at his best, but he's getting better. Will can tell they won't be staying there much longer and dreads the moment of this new choice more than anything.

Will I go with him? Will he let me go if I refuse to?

He watches the man walk through the snow or under the pale sunlight, and tries to imagine a life completely without him now, after all they went through. 

He's not surprised when he realizes he can't, but it doesn't make him feel much better.

Those are the good days, when they don't fight and can just enjoy each other's company in perfect silence: Will can crawl into him and nest in the darkness and adoration he finds there, forget about the bargain with the devil it represents. Hannibal has never been more human, his interactions with him less secure and bold.

They discuss art and literature, they can talk for hours with their voices being the only sound around them. At night, Will sleeps on his chest, holding him close. The man doesn't try to force him to do anything else, doesn't even try to kiss him.

Sometimes, they even laugh.

If he feels up to it, Hannibal even tries to cook when they get back: and Will watches him mesmerized by his movement, thinking that he can finally appreciate his technique now that he knows nobody will be in his plate. If Hannibal notices it, he gives no sign: but from time to time he stares at Will like he's trying to slip inside his mind to know what he's thinking, and his eyes are so gentle when he does that, that he can almost allow himself to hope.

He wanted to watch the Dragon change him; maybe, in the end, he succeeded. They never fight when Hannibal cooks: they slip into bed and just fall asleep, barely talking.

Maybe they're too tired; maybe they want one moment more of peace. It's sweet and sour in his mouth at the same time.

And it never lasts long.

\---

It seems fitting for their first kiss, their first real and physically intimate moment, to happen after their biggest and worst fight; they spent years circling each other and avoiding direct confrontation, preferring to lose themselves in metaphors and wordy mind games that never really took them anywhere.

It's all different now: because they're vicious, angry, ready to hit as hard as they can to get what they want. And most importantly, they have no appearances to maintain anymore, nothing to lose. They're stripped naked in front of the other, with every nerve, wound and bruise exposed and throbbing under the skin.

They hid so much under layers and layers of lies and pretenses: and now they're scrubbing everything off so hard it makes them bleed. It's the norm for them, the calculated risk of living together.

But what they did not expect, it's what came after the rage.

They're arguing about finally leaving the US once again, and they have done it so many times already that it tires them before they can even reach the heat of the argument.

Will knows they can't stay holed up in there forever, that the longer they wait, harder it'll be to get out of the country; but that doesn't stop him from still being paralyzed by the thought, terrified by what it would mean, by what would happen to him, to them if they finally decided to leave this safe, little corner they built together to start their new life.

A new life that, on paper, would be everything Hannibal always wanted and all Will tried to run away from for the last five years.

So they run in circle, throwing the same arguments back to each other, firmly stuck in a loop they can't seem to be able to break no matter what they do; Hannibal urges him, manipulates him, slides under his skin in the attempt to persuade him. Will resists, fights back, stalls and rebuffs his attempts.

Only, this time is different: because there's a particular kind of anger in Hannibal that oozes out of him like black blood, an almost feral ferocity that reminds him of a caged beast. That's what he is, Will realizes: first the hospital, now the lodge.

He's at the end of the rope, and the frustration makes him even more dangerous than usual.

“No matter what changes between us, how you evolve, you seem determined to remain a coward: I wish I could say I'm surprised, but the truth is, I should've known from the start how weak you are, how incapable of making decisions you insist to be.”

Will snorts and has to fight the urgency to push him and then punch him.

“Oh, right. I'm a coward because I don't want us to move too soon and get caught because of a half assed plan! Right, of course!”

Hannibal's nostrils flare, as he strikes forward and grabs his arm while he's trying to turn his back on him, keeping him in place.

“You know we need to leave as soon as we can or we'll never do it. The truth is, you still don't know if you want to. You like living on the edge between two worlds, never capable of choosing: you accept me here, because you can control me, but at the same rime, you dream of going back to your little wife and to your fake life. And you'll keep playing this game until I'll be the one forced to make a decision for both of us; so then you'll have something else to blame me for.”

Those words hit him so deeply he tries to wriggle away from his hold, but, as weak as he is, Hannibal doesn't let go. Will groans loudly, like a wounded animal that can't escape his predator. 

"Fuck you! Fuck you and your fucking self entitlement! You ruined my life, you threw all I had built for myself away! And you dare call me a coward?"

"At least I'm capable of admitting what I did, instead of living one lie after the other."

Will wants to hit him so badly, but when he looks up to stare into his eyes, what he sees is the opposite of the vitriol in his words. And that feels like a slap in his face, so hard it wakes him up all of a sudden.

They are so good at hurting each other, at uncovering every soft spot: but the truth is, in their words there's a desperate need for connection, a destructive desire to keep the two of them close together. Will sees Hannibal on his knees in his mind, begging him to just accept him, to take him fully and completely.

And in his hesitation, Will sees his own desire to have him without having to renounce to his humanity. Why can't they ever meet halfway? Why do they always need to make each other bleed when anything else would be much simpler?

It's what he's thinking about when he raises a hand and gently caresses Hannibal's face, pressing his fingers against his lips: the man is so stunned by the gesture that he almost tries to move away, like he's not sure he can handle kindness in this moment. But Will holds him still.

And then kisses him.

It lasts only a few seconds, barely enough for both of them to register it, but it's enough to get rid of all the animosity between them, of bursting it like a balloon that deflates, emptied and useless. Hannibal sighs into the kiss, as Will caresses his hair and gently pulls at them.

"Years spent imaging how this would feel like, trying to find the perfect moment for it... And then you choose to just make it happen while we're fighting."

Will laughs. 

"You're not the only one who's good at manipulating any situation to your advantage. "

Hannibal nods and stays still, waiting for him to say something.

“Why can't you just ask me to come with you? Tell me that you want me not to leave you? Everything would be a lot simpler: you tell me I'm a coward and you're right. I am; I'm afraid of what will happen if we leave together, of what our life together will be, because we have a habit of bring out the worst in each other, of being destructive. But you... you are afraid of losing me. Yet you never admit it. So who's the worst coward?”

Will feels lighter after saying that, after finally admitting it all and filling the gap his words left between them. Hannibal sighs deeply with his eyes closed, like he's not sure he could bear to look at him just now: but when he does, his eyes are emptied of all the rage that was in it just a few seconds before.

And he looks mildly scared for the first time.

“And what would you say if I admitted that? Would you come with me? I don't want to lose you, please don't leave me, Will. See? I opened up my heart in front of you. What are you going to do? Are you going to crush it or treasure it?”

Will takes a deep breath and kisses him again; Hannibal looks like he comes alive with every touch, as if his whole body was starving for them and now he's already dependent on every kiss and every caress.

He guides the two of them to the bedroom and lies on the bed with him, staring at him and keeping a hand on his side, touching him through the heavy clothes. Will feels exhausted, and keeps his eyes closed for the longest time, trying to find the right words, but knowing there aren't any.

Knowing that he'll have to finally lower all his defenses and stop hiding behind the walls he used to try to protect himself with: and so will Hannibal.

 

The man looks unsure of what to do, if he's allowed to touch him or not; the way his face twists and turns remind of him of the night of their fall, of Hannibal's desperate grip on his shirt because he had no idea how far he could go, what was permitted and what denied. Will sighs and closes his eyes, smiling when he feels his hand brushing against his scarred cheek.

 

Hannibal finally cracks a smile, the first of the whole night, one of adoration, desire, hope, mixed with still a hint of resentment for being forced to suffer and sweat so much to get what he wants. But he says nothing: he just keeps staring at him like he's made of gold and there's nothing in his whole existence that could mean as much as he does.

 

Will closes his eyes and sighs.

 

“I'm scared, you know? I've always been scared of you, of us together: and now there's nowhere for me to run, nobody left waiting for me. I... I can't even begin to imagine what our life together on the run could be without feeling lost and paralyzed by a fear that chills me to my bones.”

 

The man attempts to smile again, but it's far less successful than his previous one.

 

“Technically, we would not be on the run, Will. The world thinks us dead; no one is looking for us.”

 

Will lets out a breathy laugh, that sounds more nervous than anything; Hannibal's face to returns to a mask of perfect immobility, like he's trying to hide away inside of himself to prepare for whatever will come next. The thing is, he's not sure what's going to say, how to let out the feelings that are moving inside of him, pushing to get out.

 

Five years of dealing with Hannibal have done nothing to prepare him for this moment, for the concrete possibility of starting to build a life with him: he spent so long hating him, wanting to destroy him, to sever the connection they shared, to move on and find love and peace elsewhere. Because Hannibal is a monster, someone who cannot love without being destructive, and he's not sure this can change.

 

“Remember what I told you in Wolf Trap all those years ago?”

 

“That you do not have my appetite for murder and mayhem; that you tolerate while I delight. Yes, I remember every single word.”

 

Will nods, looking away, but not pulling trying to away from his touch.

 

“I'm not sure anything has changed since then: killing Dolarhyde with you... that was the most vivid experience of my whole life, I never felt more alive, never felt so much connection with someone like in that moment with you. I enjoyed it, every second of it: like I did with Garret Jacob Hobbs and Randal Tier. And I don't feel any guilt. But... it's not what I want: I don't want us to go and travel the world leaving a trail of bodies behind us. You spent years trying to change me, and you have: but you haven't changed the fundamental part of me that doesn't want to kill; that's me, Hannibal, who I am, who I've always been. I don't want to let go of it.”

 

Hannibal has the same expression he had all those years ago: but Will knows it's not the same; because this time he's not rejecting him and trying to separate their lives, to finally break that painful hold that keeps them together. He's offering him a way to have him.

 

Will rubs his eyes so hard he sees starts behind them, and he feels crushed under the weight of all the emotions that are running inside of him, some contradicting the other. 

“I want to go with you: not because I don't have anything left, but because I really, truly want to. You. I wanted it back then as well; but I also wanted to cut you away from me because you were burning me, trying to erase who I was. And... it doesn't have to be this way. I accepted you; now it should be your turn to accept me, to accept that I do not want to get rid of my humanity.”

 

“Do you believe we could live like that? With you pretending not to see? Indulging in the fruits of my wickedness without having to participate in it?”

 

He doesn't know what to say to that: his head hurts so bad he can feel himself slip under the water again, suffocating in a deep and black sea that threatens to destroy him. Hannibal is like a knife, violently twisted between his ribs, going in and out of him and tearing him apart. It hurts so bad, so much he think he should want to get rid of that pain at all costs, instead of trying to reach out for more. It's violent and visceral; he's not sure they could survive that forever.

 

Hannibal takes a very deep breath with his eyes closed, breaking his composure to then stare at him like he's so tempted to, and he isn't quite sure which option is prevailing, kiss and kill him at the same time.

 

“You said we bring out the worst in each other. And you are right: what we share is a destructive bond that leaves a scorched earth behind, that poisons everything it touches. Are you suggesting we try to change that and try, for once, to focus on the best? To accept your kindness, to treasure it and adapt to it, would be admitting that you have been more successful in changing me than the other way around.”

 

“Do you think that's true? That we could live like that?”

 

Will goes with the memory to the last glimpse of his face he got before their fall: he looked at peace, satisfied with just holding him close and hearing their hearts beat together. This is what I wanted for both of us; a life together, a place where we could be happy. He thought death was the answer to that; he wants to be proved wrong so badly.

 

“I don't know. It would require an astonishing amount of work from both of us. But again, the focuses of our relationships have shifted so deeply over time... maybe there is hope for that too.”

 

Hannibal turns away from him to lie on his back, staring at the ceiling. Will reaches out to slide a hand on his chest, feeling him tense and then relax.

 

“Could you truly forgive me? Move on from the ruins of our past and forget it all in the name of this new beginning?”

 

His voice is so low, so hushed Will struggles to hear him, but that sound fills him with a tenderness that makes him smile, even though he shakes his head.

 

“I'll never forget what you've done. But... I'm starting to think I have forgiven you already. What about you? Could you be happy enough with me to let go of the past?”

 

Hannibal laughs, and a dark and nearly malevolent grin appears on his lips.

 

“It is a dangerous predicament you're putting yourself in, Will. I could promise you that I will stop killing if you stay with me. Which means you could never leave without feeling the blood of my possible victims on your hands.”

 

“Somebody once told me that a life with you is blackmail elevated to love. I believed it then; now I want to convince myself that it can be more. And you can keep your promises, I don't want them: I'm offering you a chance. Either you'll take it or you won't.”

 

Will feels emptied, drained of any residual strength: he puts his head on Hannibal's chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. A part of him tries to wish he'd refuse, tries to still want to be free of him: but he can't find it anymore. There's nothing left in him that doesn't have Hannibal's fingerprints all over it, and it's almost liberating to realize that for him, it must be the same.

 

Hannibal says nothing for what feel like hours, days, for so long that Will can feel himself slipping into an agitated sleep.

 

“What a smart, cunning boy you are, Will.”

 

Will smiles to himself.

 

Then Hannibal grabs his face and forces Will to look at him, with eyes fiery and tender at the same time. Will licks his lips and waits in silence. 

 

"I loved how you looked with blood on your face, wild, unhinged and ready to devour the entire world. But I love you as you are now as well: clean."

 

"I'm not clean and you know that."

 

Hannibal says nothing; just smiles and then kisses him again.

\---

 

They move to Santorini two weeks later.


	3. Prologue: death and rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you'll appreciate reading more of this verse :)  
> Thank you for all the nice comments <3

Prologue: death and rebirth

The people of Santorini are used to see all sort of people on their island after so many decades spent with hundreds of tourists every year. They don't break their composure in front of his scars, don't make unnecessary comments when they see him and Hannibal walking together or ask what happened to the two of them.

 

This doesn't mean Will cannot see their gazes linger on him, their eyes following him or their hushed comments spoken in quick Greek that he can neither understand nor remember. He catches the curiosity in their voices behind their polite and apparently unassuming questions, like when they ask him why did he and Hannibal decide to move there, where are they from, if they are going to stay permanently or not. 

 

He just looks the other way, answers laconically half in English and half in broken Greek, and pretends none of that can touch him, that he can let all that wash over him, leaving nothing behind: but it does leave something clinging to his skin that he cannot scrubs off. The unsettling feeling of being marked, of standing out in the crowd no matter what he does, follows him around like an infection.

 

He spends his first months there getting used to the new house, to this new life: and it's a long process in learning how to live once again as the new person he is now, after leaving behind his old life and shredding the last remains of the old Will Graham. It's painful, like cutting out infected and throbbing flesh with no anesthesia: he does it anyway because there's nothing else left for him, nothing but what they have together.

 

Will tries to look up to Hannibal, to watch and copy how he deals with their new arrangement, to feed on his self confidence to boost his own. But they are too different: they don't have the same coping mechanisms, and so he finds nothing there to help him, other than a silent comfort and that walls-shattering grin of satisfaction he reads on his lips and in his eyes every time he meets his gaze. He's proud of having him there with him, happy even.

 

Some days he is too; but sometimes he cannot stomach it.

 

And he's thankful that their house is big enough to allow them to ignore each other when they need to. After spending so many months together, they finally managed to strike a bargain that gives both of them an imaginary sense of freedom from the other, of still having two separated lives. Though by then, they're so intertwined it's hard to keep the illusion going.

 

While Hannibal retires inside the house at first, like he wants to wrap himself in solitude and isolation to recuperate and strengthen himself, Will spends his days outside, possibly to make up for the months of forced isolation.

 

The weather in Santorini is mild and warm even in late October. There are still some tourists filling the beaches, sunbathing and swimming in the crystalline sea before it gets too cold, smiling with a genuine happiness in their eyes that he struggles to even imagine how it'd feel like. Will observes them from afar, blends in with them enough to become invisible and sinks back into a life that doesn't revolve entirely around his loneliness and around Hannibal.

 

The island is beautiful, with civilization and wild nature fused together in a perfect mix that captures him despite everything. He learns to live on it, falls in love with its long and quiet days, with the overwhelming silence that at time surrounds him and makes him forget where he is, who he's there with and all that happened to him.

 

Hannibal was right once again, of course, when he decided to move there.

 

Everything is new for Will, different enough from his past life to give him the true feeling of being a completely new person, that Will Graham really is dead and that he can be whoever he wants to be. Because he's in a place where no one knows his true name, where he has no haunted past, with no secrets and nightmares waiting for him behind his closed eyelids.

 

He walks slowly through the white painted streets, explores the depths of the island eagerly to discover all the secret hideouts, the most secluded and hidden bays, the most quiet and lonely hills and woods where he can hide from the whole world, and he can disappear and forget he's made of flesh and bones.

 

He can pretend he's part of the nature that surrounds him, that he has no will or a mind of his own.

 

Will sinks into nothingness.

 

And when he comes back to himself, he feels ready to deal with the universe he lives in.

 

Hannibal leaves him be for the time being: sometimes they go for a hike or an impromptu exploration together, with the man tailing behind him in perfect silence, talking only when he's sure his opinion is truly required. Will appreciates it in the measure he knows the man is holding himself back from trying to control him, in order to fuel his trust: he wants Will to come to him, to be needed. And Will never lets him down on that front.

 

“Did we come here to satisfy your aestethic side? Your interest in Ancient Greece's culture and mythology?”

 

Will doesn't look at him, but keeps his eyes on the sparkling horizon, with the sun shining on the perfectly blue sea. A bead of sweat runs through his temple. But he doesn't even move: he stays still and waits, with a gentle wind caressing him.

 

Hannibal takes a very deep breath and Will can feel him smiling even without having to see him.

 

“Would you disagree with my choice if I said yes?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“I'm just curious. I went along with it, because... Because I just couldn't be bothered with making decisions or asking questions back then. Now I just feel like wanting to know.”

 

“There is that, of course. Being so close to the source of such an influential and ancient culture is stimulating; so is being surrounded by the remains of its beauty. A savage kind of beauty that still survives in all we see around us. And this brings me to my second reason for moving us here. This island reminded me of you, of the contradictions that inhabit your body and your soul: you're beautiful and wild in equal measures. You're educated and raw at the same time. Both divine and demonic; and I can see you reflected in all your different shapes and forms here.”

 

Will laughs softly, finally turning his head to meet his eyes. Hannibal looks at him expectantly, reading into his body language, his silence and adjusting his expectations on what he perceives.

 

There is a long moment where the only sound around them is the wind blowing.

 

"The same could be said of you."

 

Hannibal grins at him.

 

"Then it seems to me that I have chosen the perfect place for us. One that encapsulates all the physical manifestations of our life together."

 

Will nods. Then he closes his eyes and rests his back heavily against the tree behind them. Behind his eyelids, he memorizes how Hannibal looks like now: he's so similar to his old self. To the well respected man he met in Jack's office all those years ago.

 

And yet, he is at the same time so fundamentally different.

 

Before, back in Baltimore, in their old life, there was something ravenous in his eyes: he was desperate to sink his teeth into him, to tear him apart. He was a monsters from ancient nightmares coming alive just to devour him and own him completely. He wanted to surround Will and become a single being together with him. And in the process, he wanted to change and manipulate who he was to the point of erasing him.

 

Until Will would disappear.

 

Now that hunger is gone: and what is left behind are complicated and mixed feelings neither of them can explain yet. The wounds they both carry are still fresh, and it'll take time for them to be healed enough to face what they are hiding in the depths of their hearts.

 

Will caresses the scar on his cheek, feeling it poking hard and warm under his still soft and growing beard. Hannibal observes the gesture almost without blinking: and his eyes shine with a sinister sparkle.

 

Without saying a word, Will gets up and walks towards the cliff, stopping right on the edge: the sea is roaring calmly under him and its scent fills his nostrils and calms him. His life now is dealing with the stretched tendrils of Hannibal's desire, with his need to keep him as close as he can while giving him the illusion of being the one in control.

 

At the same time, Hannibal has to carefully deal with the unspoken promises and bargains they made with each other.

 

Neither of them know what they are doing. They both know they can't escape anymore.

 

“Do you think the bluff is eroding here too?”

 

Hannibal laughs quietly when he joins him: Will can barely see his face in the harsh sunlight that almost cancels his features. Yet, he can still see his eyes.

 

“Of course it is. The bluff is eroding everywhere, Will. And we seems to be always right on top of it.”

 

He nods, and feels a deep and painful sense of grief weighing down on his chest, almost strangling his heart.

 

“The whole world is being slowly swallowed by the sea. A force no one can stop or escape; it's kind of unsettling.”

 

“But beautiful in its fury, in its inevitability. A destiny of annihilation we all equally share. A beautiful and powerful image, Will.”

 

They don't touch or look at each other, but the feeling of their bodies so close together is intoxicating as if they were. Will has learned how to breathe like this, with Hannibal hovering over him.

 

He tastes salt in the back of his mouth, and feels Hannibal's presence everywhere around him. It's the sickening feeling of being ill, and of being followed around by your illness no matter what you or how hard you try to escape it.

 

But it's a familiar feeling: and Will is glad to be there with him, looking down the bluff and staring at the roaring sea together with him.

 

When he goes swimming alone, usually right before the sun sets, when the air starts to be cold and he shivers wrapped in nothing but an old shirt and a beach towel, he stops in his tracks to look back. The island looks at the same time incredibly close and frighteningly far away. Will can spot their house easily, even in the dying light.

 

He imagines Hannibal cooking in the kitchen, or still locked in his study while working on a new painting. Or maybe he's doing none of those things: Will can imagine a different scenario every time.

 

And every time, he thinks about drowning himself: he could just let go, like he wanted to do all those months ago and didn't succeed. Now he could.

 

He is alone; no one would be able to save him.

 

Death seemed to be only way to save his soul back then: maybe it can still be. And yet... all he can think about is Hannibal waiting for him in the house, expectant perhaps. Or maybe just faintly aware of his absence and hoping he'll return soon. He didn't think about Molly before falling: there was no room in his mind for the thought of her and Walter.

 

He didn't wonder whether or not they would miss him, how they would go on without him. He asks himself if Hannibal would survive the separation, what damage it could inflict on him. Would he follow him? Would he move on?

 

Will is never sure if what keeps him alive is what he and Hannibal share or his own refusal to let it end. Maybe he doesn't want to know.

 

Because, no matter what it is, he always swims back ashore.


	4. London I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fact n°1: I don't like how this chapter came out and I'm not sure what happened to my abilities to put words together. Hopefully you won't think it's too bad. 
> 
> Fact n°2: Will's perspective in this chapter is extremely negative, and it should not be taken as completely reliable. Keep it in mind while you read. 
> 
> Thank you for all your comments and please leave more to motivate me!

The flight that from New York takes them to London is possibly the longest and most extenuating experience of Will's life.

 

Hannibal manages to doze off for a couple of hours, wrapped under the coarse blanket provided by the flying company. He's breathing softly against the window, exhausted by the voyage even more than he is: he looks oddly helpless like this.

 

Will doesn't even try to close his eyes to give them some rest. He's kept awake by a suffocating tension that sinks its nails into his guts and claws at them, twisting and pulling them out.

 

He was sure they were not going to make it through the check in, that somebody was going to recognize and stop them, ending their life together before it could even begin. But it didn't happen.

 

Their fake documents worked perfectly, with nobody sparing them more than a few glances, even smiling while wishing them safe travel. So now they are on the plane that will take them to apparent safety, away from all they used to be.

 

And Will wishes he could feel safe: but the truth is, he's still not sure if he's disappointed no one stopped them, or relieved about it.

 

When he takes out his passport and stares at his new name, at the fake identity that will now become who he truly is. Because Will Graham is dead and now he had to learn to accept it and live with the truth of this. But Henry William Vance still feels foreign in his mouth, and he can't swallow the taste of it quite yet.

 

Hannibal looks so serene, so at ease. When he suddenly jerks awake and turns around quickly, almost with a hint of panic, he seems to relax and come back to himself as soon as he sees him. Will wishes it could be so simple and immediate for him as well.

 

But what moves inside of him is a plunging, heavy and constricting sense of loss, a deep grief that he just cannot shake off. He's not even sure what he's mourning. And yet he can feel tears pooling behind his eyes and sadness grabbing his throat. Will longs for the oblivion of sleep, and yet it escapes him.

 

So he's left there, biting at his lips and nails until they bleed.

 

“We should've gone directly to Santorini.”

 

Hannibal takes a very long and deep breath, adjusting himself in his seat with a faint groan, and then drinking some water. They had this conversation before and they both know that. But Will desperately keeps reenacting it so maybe some fabricated sense of safety will somehow reach him.

 

“Our house on the island is not habitable yet, Will. We choose it together, and I am sure that it will look amazing once finished, but it will take a few months for that to happen. And there are bureaucratic matters I need to solve during this time. We have discussed this already.”

 

His voice is soft, slow and gentle; but he's not condescending. Hannibal is giving Will what he wants: a quiet support that won't, at the same time, ridicule his fear. Yet, they can both detect some frustration in his voice, the faintest hint of it that reminds both of them that all their wounds are still healing, and that many issues are still unsolved.

 

Will sighs and rubs his temple.

 

“We might attract too much attention.”

 

“If we had insisted to move on the island so early and while we had no definitive residence, it would have been infinitely more suspicious, and possibly lead to more accurate background checks we both, I am sure, really want to avoid. Trust me. If we take it slow and follow the plan, we will reach Santorini safe and sound.”

 

The way he says it makes him want to believe every word, to trust him with his life even more than he has already. Yet, a sarcastic laugh escapes his lips, and Will tries to dry his clammy and damp palms on his jeans.

 

“Yeah, I suppose I should trust you. You're the expert on being on the run from the law, after all. I'm sure you know better.”

 

Hannibal doesn't seem at all concerned somebody might hear him. He simply sighs and then smiles, making Will feel like a child. And it's something that digs deep into his bones in a painful way, but that at the same time makes him almost blush at his pitiful attempts at fighting back against him and his instincts.

 

Because Will, on the other hand, can't help looking around to make sure they are being quiet enough to be ignored by the rest of the passengers: by now, after so many hours stuck on the plane, after so many days of preparation, he's struggling to handle the nerve-wrecking tension he feels in his guts. He gives in to it far too easily, can't stop himself from doing it. He feels about to explode and lose his mind.

 

“Yes, that is exactly why you should trust me, Will. I know how to get us safely to Santorini without attracting any attention. You should relax and rest. We will be in London soon, and then it will all become much easier.”

 

Will shakes his head and rubs his eyes with unsteady fingers trembling like leaves: he digs them so deep into the sockets he almost hurts himself, and has to fight the destructive feeling of wanting to gauge out his eyes and let himself bleed to death.

 

He tries to abandon himself against his seat, arms by his sides and his mind focusing on nothing. But even nothing seems to have shape, weight, color and presence. And it occupies all the space insider his brain he's trying to free so he can slip into a brief sleep.

 

Hannibal takes another deep breath; Will is forced to look back at him, drawn to him like a moth to the flame. In his cheap clothes, his unkempt beard and slightly long hair, he blends in perfectly with the rest of the passengers. No one would know who he is or even suspect it. He went back to be the perfect master of camouflage, able to disappear in a crowd in a heartbeat if he wanted to. He plays the part life gives him perfectly as usual.

 

Will on the other hand, feels like the elephant in the room with his scars and his barely hidden anxiety: they could all read I'm hiding something right on my face if they looked long enough, they would know who we are and what are we running from. He starts biting his nails again without even noticing.

 

Hannibal's eyes are still fixated on him, his expression halfway between pity and resignation.

 

“You do not have to come with me, however, if you are still doubtful or if you have changed your mind about our life together. I trust you will be able to go back home and return to your old life, or disappear wherever you will decide to go.”

 

“And you'd just let me go? You wouldn't look for me?”

 

To that, Hannibal's face opens in a grin that Will isn't sure how to interpret. He's at the same time sinister, indulging and in absolute awe of him, even thought Will right now is reduced to nothing but an exposed and abused nerve. He's at his lowest, he's keeping himself awake and alive only because he's not brave enough anymore to let himself go and die. And yet, Hannibal still finds him beautiful.

 

He still has that tenderness in his eyes, a light of hope, love and worship, despite Will's repeated rejections.

 

“Of course not. I would come find you, eventually. But sometimes I think that is exactly what you'd want me to do.”

 

Will lets out a shaky sigh, almost a sob. He's so tired, so exhausted he's only a breath away from collapsing. And yet, with that one simple phrase, Hannibal allows him to cling to the inevitability of their relationship: neither of them can escape, so they are both alone in the black hole they have made of their lives.

 

Neither of them has anything else other than this: the rest of their existence has been wiped away and erased completely, leaving nothing behind but scars and nightmares. Will almost manages to smile.

 

Almost.

 

Hannibal, tentatively, covers his hand with his own, stroking the top. Will relaxes instinctively; Pavlov's dog reacting to his master's attentions. He does smile at this thought, but says nothing. He just nods vaguely, looking at Hannibal and seeing in him someone who's as scared of what they're trying to build as he is.

 

“I'm not leaving.”

 

Will closes his eyes not to see the winning spark in his eyes, but doesn't let go of his hand.

 

\---

 

The car drive from the airport to their new apartment feels like a dream, like the reel of an old movie played at inhumane speed, because Will is unable to tell anything apart or to understand exactly where they are or where they are going. He sees the world through a sepia tinted patina, with the edges burnt like in old and decays films; and everything feels unreal, distorted. Maybe he's disassociating again without even realizing it.

 

Hannibal is sitting right next to him in the taxi, wrapping him in his arms and gently stroking his hair from time to time, whispering to him that they'll be home soon, that everything will be alright. And he feels so confused and out of his mind to almost believe all he says. He clings to the sound of his voice to forget the world moving way too fast all around him, making him feel like he's about to throw up. Hannibal is the only thing that feels real, solid and concrete under his slippery fingers. Will tries to trust that one feeling to anchor himself. But it's so unstable under his fingers he can't seem to hold on to it.

 

Maybe it was the flight, he tells himself. Or maybe it's the knowledge that there's no turning back now. Not anymore.

 

Their new house is situated in a quiet and obviously affluent neighborhood, and Will can't help looking around in disbelief. Everything is wrapped in an almost deafening silence that manages to be more unnerving than the city with its cacophony of voices and sounds. There's nothing there to help him escape his thoughts and the monsters in his head.

 

Nothing except for Hannibal, who shows him around with obvious pride in his eyes, with the calm that comes from knowing that Will is his now. For good this time.

 

The apartment is a mirror of his old house in Baltimore: luxury, opulence and maniacal attention to the details. Everything is perfect, wrapped in that artificial curtain of pretense that Will could smell and feel under his fingers in his office as well, that was essencial to hide the monster lurking behind it. Every room is painfully predictable, but shocking at the same time, because neither of them is used to it anymore after so long.

 

They lost their attitude for lies and secrets, for the beauty that hides the terror. Will looks at the two of them now, at the state they are in and realizes just out of place they are there with their thin and sullen faces, with their haunted eyes. Everything feels like a bad dream, like a dark tunnel he just can't seem to escape no matter how hard he tries.

 

Hannibal feels out of focus as well, impossibly far away from him and unable to come to his rescue. Will feels an immediate sense of disgust and hatred for this house, and no matter what, he can't shake it off.

 

While they are walking through the corridors that will take him to his room, Will suddenly is hit by an old and half buried memory, one he tried so hard to push out of his mind. He remembers when Molly and Walter moved into his cabin from their apartment in the city.

 

It took months of coaxing, of small and bitter fights with Molly, of promises and gifts, of sweet, whispered words to persuade them. Will just couldn't live so close to so many people anymore, and was not going to give up his dogs: in his altered, traumatized and selfish state of mind, it felt natural to him that Molly should accommodate him.

 

He conveniently forgot about her grief for her first husband, ignored the obvious affection she had for her house and her friends there. He shut down his empathy for good and became selfish, but in a way he could justify to himself by explaining her that it was for her own good, for the sake of the family they were trying to build.

 

He ignored Walter's needs too; the thought of what damages he could do to the child by uprooting him so abruptly escaped him completely, they didn't even occurred to him in the first place.

 

Molly hesitated for a long time, but Will knew he could make her give in.

 

And she did, in the end, trying to take everything with her usual levity, with her sense of humor and her naturally easy going nature. She smiled, joked about all the changes she was going adopt to make the cabin a warmer and more welcoming place. Molly was the kind of woman that could find happiness everywhere and in everything.

 

But Will knew from the very start how much they both hated that house, that it never felt like home to them. Not even on their best days.

 

Walter refused to speak to either of them for weeks after moving, locked himself in a stern silence that turned into a deep and bitter resentment for him that never really went away. Will could see it in his eyes, in the way his voice sounded when the boy called him “dad”, almost mocking him in the process.

 

He would find any excuse to sleep over to his friends' houses, would make subtle snippets at all that was wrong with the cabin and not even the dogs and the wonders of nature could do anything to win him over. Walter refused to go fishing with him unless Molly was there as well, considered being alone with him almost a chore.

 

Will and the boy got along for her sake, could even have some good times: but they never bonded, not truly. Every time he looked at him, Will would see the son he thought he wanted, projected his needs on him and erased all he didn't like, looking the other way and never trying to overcome the obstacles in their relationship.

 

He didn't want to try to be a father, neither knew how to be one: and so he never did anything to become it. And Walter's resentment grew silently inside of him, fixated on him, but hidden from his mother.

 

And Molly... Molly tried to make due, to force herself to fall in love with what Will loved like she always tried to do, but to no avail. She was a lively, social and enthusiastic woman; living like that, so far away from the world was devastating for her.

 

Their phone would randomly stop working during storms, leaving them with no means of communications; the water was freezing cold on most mornings, and the silence could be so absolute it would drive you crazy. Molly was a positive woman: she wanted this to work, she desired to build a family with him more than anything.

 

But the isolation consumed her nerves, exhausting her to the point of making her snap, of plunging her into either a deep apathy or an uncontrollable restlessness.

 

Will would try to make jokes about it, to tease her and gently help her with her chores to ease the burdens she had to handle. Sometimes it would work, and she would smile and go back to her old self, laughing under her breath and joking with him.

 

They could be so deeply in synch at times. They shared a similar sense of humor that would help smooth their edges.

 

But, sometimes, it wouldn't work.

 

“All work and no play makes Molly a dull girl.”

 

Will said that while they were snowed in, unable to leave further than the courtyard, and the house was so cold they all had to wear jackets inside it. Walter was locked in his room, refusing to come down; Molly was trying to light the fireplace with the dogs nervously moving around her, as unnerved by the situation as they all were.

 

She turned to face him with pure exasperation in her eyes, with an expression of bitterness and almost of hatred painted on her face that perfectly matched her son's. She didn't look like the same woman he would go to bed with at night, who would smile and try to comfort him, but one that could barely stand to look at him and that hated him with every fiber of her being.

 

Molly dismissed him harshly, ignoring his apology and continued to work in perfect silence. Will felt lost.

 

He looked away and never made another similar joke ever again; he retreated deep inside himself and made no comments or tried to stop her when she suggested going to visit her parents for a while a few days later.

 

It became the custom during the two winters they spent together.

 

Will wonders why is he noticing all this just now, why all these memories are coming back to haunt him when he is at his lowest, unable to fight back against the despair and the loneliness that slowly sip into his skin, poisoning his blood. He looks at the house around him and it looks like gilded cage to him, a prison he can't escape because he has nothing left outside its walls.

 

And it's strangling him, muddying his perception of everything and distorting reality until he's not sure what really happened and what didn't.

 

Every happy moment with Molly and Walter, every feeling of happiness is corrupted and vilified by the darkness that is drowning him, pulling him under while he fights for his breath. He's not sure he can fight it anymore, if he can force himself to swim back ashore and escape the deadly grip that is wrapping its tendrils around his throat.

 

Will only realizes he's leaning against the wall, hyperventilating, sweating and trembling, when Hannibal caresses his cheek and gently whispers his name over and over again until he finally registers his words. He looks up to meet his eyes, and what he sees it's not the monster from his nightmares, the wendigo hungry for his flesh and ready to swallow him whole.

 

Hannibal's expression is one of both concern and of burning curiosity: and it doesn't scare him, doesn't repulse him like he tried to convince himself it should. That shining in his eyes, that burning and warm glance is the only thing he's sure really exists. His hand is so pleasantly cool on his fevered skin Will can't help giving in, allowing him more and more contact.

 

He needs it; it'll go crazy otherwise.

 

“Will, are you alright?”

 

He shakes his head, feeling a hysteric laugh exploding out of his mouth, followed by a weariness that almost causes him to collapse.

 

“No, I don't think I am.”

 

Hannibal takes a very deep breath and holds Will up between the wall and his body, gently rubs his back until he can feel his muscles relax under that pressure. He smells and looks awful as well, they both do, but the feeling of having him close is so familiar he welcomes it anyway, disregarding that it comes from the man that poisoned him, that destroyed any chance at happiness he had.

 

Will wants him, wants to be held by him because Hannibal is the monster capable of devouring all the other monsters, the one that can keep him safe. So he clings to him and only to him.

 

“I feel like the world is slipping away: like there is nothing real around me except you. And I hate it; I hate needing you like this. And I hate feeling what little control I still held over my life dissolving right in front of me.”

 

Hannibal inhales deeply, his eyes focusing on him like they want to pierce through his flesh and pin him to the wall. He's drawn to it anyway, and stares back.

 

“I could make you something to eat, if you wanted. You must be famished and dehydrated. You might feel more like yourself after.”

 

Just the thought strikes him with a sudden bout of nausea, and he forces himself to stay upright and keep down the bile that fills his mouth.

 

“I don't think I could eat anything without feeling sick. I just... I want to sleep. I need oblivion. I need to forget everything for a few hours...”

 

Hannibal rocks him into his arms like a child, brushing his hair with his fingers until Will, at least, stops shaking and doesn't look about to pass out anymore. But his mind is in a place where nothing can reach it, where all hopes have been extinguished and the wasteland has devoured all it could find.

 

“At least take a shower and drink some water. I will leave you alone after this to your much needed rest. Just do this one thing for me.”

 

Will doesn't fight him, doesn't resist in any way: his care and attentions are almost welcomed now, because they remove responsibilities from him. This is different from being undressed by Hannibal in his sleep, and then being dressed up again to serve a purpose. This is on his own terms, and there is a genuine amount of care in Hannibal's gestures that, for once, it's not paired with violence.

 

The shower does help. The water is warm against his skin, massages his sore muscles and gives him at least some physical relief. Its sound is soothing and almost hypnotic, dragging him dangerously close to falling asleep.

 

He tries to remember Molly's scent, the sound of her voice and the happiness in her eyes. She was so beautiful in the morning light, so bright and golden she could blind you with her smile, make you fall in love over and over again. But that sense of peace is gone forever from his memories of her: now he sees her in the hospital bed instead, with her eyes full of resentment or dead like in his nightmares.

 

Hannibal comes to him instead, with his bloody hands and a trail of death and destruction following him. Yet he tastes sweet in his mouth, and his hands are gentle and loving as they guide him to his room after he's dried and dressed in fresh clothes. He's caring in unsettling ways as he helps him drink and then puts him to bed.

 

“What troubles you? Would you tell me?”

 

Will attempts a smile, but he's not sure his muscles move at all. He's too tired for that.

 

“The unsettling feeling of new and unfamiliar houses paired with the memories of the monsters they hide and the ghosts we left behind in our old ones. I guess I'm just afraid of finding out what this one is hiding.”

 

"This is not our new home, Will. You do not have to burden yourself with what it might hide. You should save your strength and focus on what awaits us."

 

How wonderful would it be if he could do just that. If he could see the world as Hannibal does, with everything becoming a new and fascinating adventure, instead of being a slow descent in the pits of hell. Will nods anyway; but knows Hannibal can read his thoughts perfectly.

 

The man sighs. He reacts to his silence with nothing but a resigned composure, thought Will can see all the mixed feelings he's experiencing written on his face. They are still trying to cope, to fit together the broken piece of who they are, and it's not an easy task.

 

"Would you like me to stay here with you until you'll fall asleep?"

 

A part of him wishes he could be strong enough to say no, to reject him just to hurt him as much as he's hurting. But he's selfish and weak, and Hannibal is the only source of strength he has left. Everything else has been wiped clean. All his hopes and dreams for the future disappeared a long time ago, leaving nothing behind.

 

So, in the end, Will nods. Hannibal slides in bed with him, wraps his arms around him and rocks him gently once again, lulling him and making him feel safer than he should.

 

Despite himself, despite the attempts of his brain to fight against it while he's so exposed and vulnerable, he's asleep within minutes.

 

\---

 

Will spends the following two days buried under the covers, deep in a slumber that almost nothing can wake him up from. Only hunger, thirst and the need to piss are capable of shake him out of this nearly comatose state he fell in, and that he doesn't want to abandon until he'll be completely recharged and fully in control of himself once again.

 

If he dreams, he doesn't remember any of them.

 

His mind feels blissfully blank, completely empty of anything. Nightmares and dreams alike are devoured by his hungry subconscious, that slowly digests them and erases them from his brain.

 

All except one.

 

He sees Dolarhyde standing in front of his bed, dripping blood on the floor and on his covers, his eyes dead and empty as they stare back at him with a wicked and evil grin: the dead man laughs at the state he's in, exposing his monstrous teeth and with his fingers like claws ready to maul him.

 

Will can't even move, paralyzed right there where he's lying by a nameless sense of fear he doesn't even know where it came from: he's not sure if he's awake and this is a new hallucination, or if this is just another nightmare he can't escape. He wants to call for Hannibal, to scream out loud until the man will come to save him, but, of course, he has no voice.

 

“Is this your becoming? Is this who you really are? A pathetic, spineless waste of space?”

 

His voice is vicious and snake-like, and it sends shivers down his spine. But of course, this is a dream and he can't escape it until it'll run his course. He was never afraid of Dolarhyde in life: he was no Garrett Jacob Hobbs, who could poison his blood and haunt him with his ghost, he was no Hannibal. But he is afraid of his words now that he is dead.

 

Will asked himself exactly the same during this last few months: if this is truly the becoming Hannibal dreamed for him, the one he wanted for himself, for both of them. Or if their evolution is still in process and there is hope at the end of the dark tunnel they're blindly trying to come out of.

 

The darkness around them is absolute: and he's not sure if being there with Hannibal is a relief or a death sentence.

 

When he finally manages to jerk awake and escape the clutches of his nightmare, he has to stumble right away towards the bathroom, and empties his stomach of what little it contained while shaking uncontrollably, feeling his throat sore and his limbs so heavy he can't even get up right away.

 

Will forces himself to slowly breathe in and out, the only sound in his hears the drumming of his own heartbeat, savagely hammering against his ribcage.

 

He doesn't have an answer to that question: he has no idea if he and Hannibal are, once again, running off a cliff that this time will take them to their death, or if they're finally heading towards safety. He's not sure if he wants to be saved or not. If this is truly his becoming, he has no idea where it'll lead to. And he's afraid.

 

He could slip and crash down so badly he wouldn't be able to get up anymore, and would be lying there knowing he failed. He's afraid of himself, of what he could do to keep him and Hannibal together.

 

Sometimes, he asks himself if he would give in and start hunting with him eventually, just to relieve the thrill they both felt while they were killing Dolarhyde. He could see Hannibal so clearly in that moment, like he was an open book and he could read all his secrets straight from his heart. He longs for that sometimes: that moment was pure and absolute. And yet, he doesn't want to believe violence is all they can share. He needs it to be more, but has no idea how to build a future on the shaky foundations of their relationship, on all the mistrust and anger and resentment they still hide.

 

The fact that he has no idea towards which possibility they are heading, it's frightening.

 

Will takes a long shower, letting the almost unbearably hot water run on his body until it becomes cold.

 

He tries to avoid looking in the mirror, but still catches a glimpse of his sullen, grey and exhausted face. And a new kind of disgust for himself fills him, one he just can't bring himself to fight while he's so tired, so completely empty of any kind of strength.

 

The house is empty and quiet all around him as he walks barefoot through it: it's raining outside and that is the only sound that surrounds him as he looks for Hannibal, not really knowing what he'll do or say once he'll find him.

 

But there is no one there: he is alone.

 

Will wraps himself tighter in the cardigan he's wearing and stands in front of the window, looking outside and pressing his forehead against the cold glass. The immediate disgust he felt for this house and this city keeps growing inside him, together with the ill feeling of being haunted and followed by monsters and nightmares he can't fight on his own, not after giving up so much of his inner strength and leaving so much of himself behind.

 

He used to know who he was, what he wanted and how to fight against the darkness growing inside of him. How, at least, to keep it under control. Now it's all gone.

 

He wonders if Hannibal ever felt this way in his life, lost and without anything to hold on to.

 

Will retreats silently back in his bedroom, lying on the bed and staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to escape his own mind even though he knows it's not possible for him, that he was never possible for him to free himself for the infection that tainted his blood before he was even born.

 

Dolarhyde's words come to him again, but in a different tone this time: in his normal voice, the one that could use to whisper lovingly to Reba Maclane and be the last thing the families he murdered would hear at the same time. Dolarhyde is not covered in blood anymore when he closes his eyes, but the look in his gaze is as hard as it was before. Will allows this new hallucination to wash over him.

 

Is this your becoming?

 

He curls under the covers and falls back into a new and this time dreamless sleep so he won't have to answer.

 

\---

 

Hannibal looks genuinely surprised to see him, when one morning Will reappears from his seclusion and joins him for breakfast. But after that one moment of confusion, he smiles widely, wishing him a good morning and asking him what he wants to eat.

 

He looks awkwardly satisfied by his presence at his table once again, in such an honest way that Will, for one moment, can't help forgetting all his thoughts to focus only on what he's feeling. Hannibal ignores his disheveled and sloppy appearance, his baggy clothes and the still exhausted look on his face.

 

For him, Will is always a sight to behold.

 

“I do hope you are feeling better and are hungry, Will. There is plenty of food. I am glad you decided to sit down with me. I trust your sleep has been refreshing and reinvigorating enough?”

 

He nods vaguely, while Hannibal pours him a generous cup of coffee and starts filling up a plate.

 

“It was. Kind of”

 

Will keeps observing Hannibal and doesn't stop him from giving him more and more to eat: he went from being disgusted by the sole thought of food to starving and now he can't wait to put something in his belly. The man seems to catch on his needs and smiles widely.

 

He doesn't even question where the meat comes from: he just thanks him and starts eating.

 

The world around him becomes a lot clearer and solid once he finally refuels his body and his brain, letting out a sigh of relief as soon as he feels better, that makes Hannibal's eyes sparkle with pride. He doesn't take his eyes off of Will during the whole process, devours the very sight of him while he eats, like he's starving too and can't wait to get his share of sustenance.

 

During the last few days, Hannibal shed the last remains of meekness, and went back to be the dangerous and charming predator he used to be. Although not completely: Will can still read on him the marks that seclusion and recovery left on him, and he still hasn't shaved his beard. He looks half way through two worlds: he's wearing a good suit, but it doesn't fit him as well as a tailored one would, and there is something in his eyes that speaks of all the subtle changes in him.

 

Will wonders what Hannibal can see in him right now, if he can imagine what he went and is still going through.

 

“What did you do while I was... resting? I got up a few times, but I could never find you...”

 

“I recovered too of course. My wound is still a painful reminder of what happened to us, at times. But other than that I started to organize my appointments and bought some clothes for myself. I have a busy schedule ahead; I want to try to get us out of here as soon as possible.”

 

The way they are talking to each other feels so unnatural to Will, so different from what it had been before.

 

There is a sense of distance between them that couldn't exist while they were locked away in the cabin, both alone with their thoughts and with each other. They couldn't hide there, couldn't look the other way and avoid confrontation, because there was nowhere to go. Now they are on different and opposite sides: Hannibal seems to be eager to return to the outside world. While Will can feel himself withdrawn inside himself and hiding away.

 

“We should get you some new clothes as well.”

 

Hannibal interrupts his train of thought with his low voice, like he doesn't want to scare him away. Will smiles, or at least attempts to.

 

“You want to dress me up now that you finally can?”

 

“I don't oppose the idea. But it's mostly because you do need more... normal clothes, Will. We should try to blend in as much as we can while we are here, even though it won't be for very long.”

 

He takes a deep breath and slowly keeps chewing the buttered bread in his plate, looking away until he feels his emotions under control enough to finally answer. Hannibal is patient, of course, waits for him in perfect silence, his eyes scanning him so intensely that Will can feel their weight on his skin.

 

The truth is, he has no idea what to say: everything has to be measured so perfectly, so attentively not to ruin the balance between them. They're not stuck in the limbo of the cabin anymore: they are back in the real world now, and any mistake could cost them their lives and freedom. Will knows they have to go on, start living again: but he's still not sure he's ready.

 

“I know; you're right. I just don't feel much like going shopping, that's all.”

 

Hannibal makes a quick and nervous gesture with his hand, like he feels the compulsion to reach out and touch him, but stops himself because he doesn't know how he would react to it. Instead, he refills his cup and takes a few sips. If he closes his eyes, Will can still feel him hands on him, the heat of his body pressed against his back, the soft pressure of his lips on his neck. He wants to be the one to initiate contact again, but at the same time knows this is not the right time.

 

“I promise we won't take too long. And maybe, after seeing more of London, you might start to enjoy your stay here a little bit more.”

 

But Will shakes his head at that, because he knows better. Hannibal is the social animal, the one that craves to be around people, to have an audience. He's the recluse. And this city is too much for him already.

 

“I don't like it here.”

 

His voice is small, almost hushed.

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

It's an invitation: Hannibal wants him to continue, to explain himself so he can dissect every word, every expression on his face and eat it up, digest it so he can understand how Will feels. But it's hard to for him to form coherent thoughts when his whole brain seems to be still screaming in pain and anguish. When he still has no idea how to cope with it and with his ghosts.

 

So, in the end, it's Hannibal who speaks.

 

“It's unfortunate that our new life had to start in a place that gives you such ill feelings. But, please, indulge me. I will leave you alone after this.”

 

Only then Will realizes that Hannibal must've missed him in the last couple of days, and that he's still not fond of admitting his weakness. They are desperate to be together, to just finally be able to forget the past and move on, but how chained to it they still are keeps them away from one another. It must be a physiological reaction to their seclusion.

 

They crave contact and separation at the same time. Will isn't sure they can achieve both without ruining it all.

 

It's the sweetness in Hannibal's tone that helps him make a decision.

 

“Alright. If you insist, we'll go.”

 

\---

 

Will follows him around quietly from one tailor to another, trying on what Hannibal puts into his hands and occasionally making comments on what he likes and what he doesn't. He was worried about being so close to strangers again, of seeing them stare at his scars and make assumptions, growing suspicious and maybe recognize them. But none of that happens.

 

Hannibal reassures him from time to time with a quick caress on his arm or by complimenting how he looks. As time passes, Will feels more at ease, thought not even seeing London through Hannibal's eyes helps shredding his dislike for the city. He wraps himself in silence so he won't have to think, focuses on his reflection in the mirror and on what he's told to do so he won't have to think.

 

Different textures and materials slide across his skin, and it's nearly a shock after so many months spent in cheap clothes that were far too big for him and that gave him and that made him look even thinner and more tired than he was already. Hannibal looks pleased: there is a light in his eyes every time he looks at him that makes Will shiver despite himself, despite the turmoil he feels inside.

 

Being out in the world with him so normally is so strange. The last time it happened, they were in Florence and both their lives were crumbling apart, and they were desperately trying to sever the noose around their necks that kept them together, but that was also strangling them. They were curious to see if they could survive the separation back then. Now if they can live together without new violence in their life.

 

“We can get something else if you do not like what we have seen so far. Maybe that will bring your interest back to the present time and to me.”

 

Will wakes up suddenly from his thought and realizes he has been staring at his reflection for long enough to force Hannibal to shake him out of it.

 

“Sorry; I told you I was not in the mood. I like the shirts though, and the pants. Not sure I feel like getting a tuxedo right now.”

 

The man nods and observes him as he puts his baggy shirt back on, hiding behind it. There's a deep intake of breath that Will echoes without even realizing it, leaning into the touch when Hannibal gently runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Something more casual, perhaps? Maybe mass produced synthetic and plastic shirts will be more up to your taste.”

 

“God, it's just clothes. Stop being so dramatic.”

 

“Is it really? I know there is something else you are hiding from me. Something that is taking your mind away. Teasing you seems to be the only way to make you escape from whatever it is.”

 

Will can't do anything, but look away under the pressure of Hannibal's eyes, sighing and rubbing his eyes to buy himself some time. Just once, he'd like to be able to hide his heart and his emotions from him. Instead he's like glass, transparent and crystal clear.

 

Hannibal can read him like an open book, run his fingers through his most hidden and secret pages until he'll know everything. Until he'll have nothing left to hide. He wants so desperately to have the strength to argue, to fight back like he usually would. Like he did back in the cabin right before they kissed for the first time. Maybe it's the memory of that moment that stops him now.

 

He's in such a dark and complicated place right now, that all he needs is relive that feeling of closeness, of clinging to something solid that can handle the weight of hid demons.

 

“I don't want to talk about it here.”

 

The man slowly approaches him again, but he refuses to look at him, rejects his attempts to touch him, escaping his hands. Hannibal doesn't attempt anything else, but from his eyes, Will can understand his frustration.

 

“Very well. Then, I suggest we go have some coffee and talk. Would that be acceptable?”

 

Will puts his jacket back on and observes their reflection in the mirror: he wonders if they'll ever go back to look as they used to, or if their change is far too permanent to be somehow reversed. Hannibal stares back, waiting for his reply with his hands in his pocket. He wants to ask him what he's thinking about, how he feels when he realized how much they have changed.

 

In the end, he nods and follows him outside.

 

\---

 

Letting words out is harder than he thought it was going to be, especially when Will is constantly overwhelmed by his surrounding, by London moving all around them just outside the tea house they're sitting into.

 

His train of thoughts is constantly derailed, and he keeps finding it impossible to focus. He sips his tea, looks at Hannibal as he does the same, but there is a distance between them that he becomes aware of as they sit there together. And he knows he's the one that must cross it to reach out to him. He's just not sure what will happen once he'll do it.

 

Will takes a deep breath, but it does nothing to ease the tension inside him. He doesn't think anything could, anyway.

 

“I had a nightmare, while I was recovering. I dreamed of Dolarhyde: and it had never happened before. I didn't think he of all people would come back to haunt me. Yet he did.”

 

His voice is a soft, shaky whisper full of a strange fear that he tries to hide behind a smile, but one that doesn't reach his eyes and that twists his face weirdly. Hannibal's interest immediately peaks, and he turns to face him, putting down his cup. He looks so eager to dissect his mind like he used to be able to do back in the early days of their relationship, and he probably missed it more than he likes to admit.

 

“What happened?”

 

“Nothing happened. He just stood there in front of me: bleeding out from the wounds we inflicted on him together, staring at me. And he asked me if this was my becoming, if this was who I really am. And what frightened me the most was that that I had no answers, because I don't know. I felt... lost. Trapped in a prison I couldn't escape. I'm not sure that feeling ever went away.”

 

Hannibal nods, but otherwise makes no movements or gestures towards him. And Will is left with his own words hanging in the air and no concrete reaction from him to justify the fear that grown inside of him. What he's afraid of, he's not sure. But it's something that grips his throat and refuses to let him go.

 

Exposing his fears and weaknesses in front of Hannibal is like turning your back to a hungry lion, silently hoping he won't devour you, but knowing it's inevitable.

 

“You told me you wanted us to die. Perhaps your becoming was being strong enough to kill me, to kill yourself as well and rid the world of our presence.”

 

“But that failed. We didn't die. So now we have to find out what happens next.”

 

“And that is what plagues your dreams, turning them into nightmares that take the form of the only man we killed together, isn't it? It is also what was keeping you from leaving the cabin we were hiding into: you don't know what to do with a life with me in it.”

 

Will smiles sadly, nodding and leaning against the wall behind his back and sighing. He was always trying to run away from Hannibal, from his influence and from his feelings for him. Those feelings he tried to erase by falling in love with Molly. But even that didn't work, because they endured, no matter what he could do to him, no matter hos horrifying his crimes were.

 

Not even trying to kill both of them worked. And jarring to realize that, despite his fears, he's glad they survived. He just has no idea what to do.

 

He has no strength left. All he wants to do is sleep and forget.

 

Why is Hannibal never tired of the sick game they play with each other? Maybe it's because his burning curiosity is what keeps him alive, or maybe because with Will there he has all he ever wanted. Will envies him and is frightened by the force of his feelings for him at the same time.

 

“Sometimes I have the feeling we have been so obsessed with changing each other that we never actually took time to... know each other, you know? We both wanted so many different things... we messed up all we had, bit what if it was all for nothing? What if the life we're trying to build together doesn't work out?”

 

“Are you afraid of that? Or would that finally free you of me? Isn't that what you always wanted?”

 

Will wants to pretend he cannot detect the almost worried hint in Hannibal's voice: it's easier to deal with him when he can pretend he's not human enough to be afraid. But by now he knows better.

 

“I don't want to be free of you anymore. I would just be alone, not free.”

 

Hannibal nods.

 

There is a very long and deep silence between them that follows: it reminds him of the sessions, especially of those after his imprisonment. They could look at each other for long minutes, trying to understand what the other was thinking about, to anticipate the next move in their deadly game, the pawn to sacrifice.

 

Will was so full of blind determination to understand him that he lost himself in Hannibal, allowed his feelings to grow and thrive inside him without attempting to stop them.

 

There was tenderness mixed with hate in him: and there still is. He's not sure one will ever disappear.

 

“What do you think our becoming is going to be? Are we going to lose ourselves while trying to change? Or are we going to go back to the violence we used to share?”

 

“Violence always had a significant appeal on both of us: and now we know how it feels like to share it in the most intimate and complete way. The temptation will hang between us forever. But, like you said, it does not have to be all we can share.”

 

“What is our becoming then?”

 

Hannibal used to be his paddle, the safe harbor he could spend the night in, safely sheltered from the storm raging outside. Then he became the storm.

 

Will has no idea what he is now: because they are both still changing.

 

“Hard to say. We are still grieving for what we lost, especially you. We are growing into our new identities, but they are not yet formed. What we will become... we will know in time.”

 

Will looks away.

 

A part of him screams that he, at least, had a direction in life when he was with Molly: he had a role to act on the stage of normalcy he wanted his life to be. He tried to be a good actor, to believe in every word and every gesture. Now there is nothing he can cling.

 

With Hannibal, there are no answers to find in him, no role designed and tailored perfectly on him, because he's as hopelessly lost as he is. He tried anyway because he needs to ask, to say those words and feel less alone in the desolation that surrounds him. He knows Hannibal is there with him, now. But neither of them knows where they are going.

 

Will closes his eyes and turns to face the window: it's raining again, and an angry expression twists his face. He feels Hannibal's hand on his scarred cheek and it's so warm and comforting he can't help the feeling of safety that sinks into him despite everything. Only Hannibal is capable of hurting and destroying him while still holding him together.

 

But not even that erases the disgusts that fills him when he stares at the wet, grey and cold city in front of him. He wants to run out of the tea house and keep running until he'll be somewhere else. It doesn't even matter where.

 

He just wants to go away.

 

“God, I hate this city. It's suffocating me, I can't feel any air left in my lungs. I can't hear my own thoughts; I just feel numb. I feel dead and I'm not sure I can shake myself back to life. Not after all that happened.”

 

His voice is shaky and unsteady, and he hates himself for it. Will can see Hannibal's reaction reflected in the mirror, the glimmer in his eyes despite the serious expression on his face: as usual, he's torn between enjoying his pain and distress, manipulate it to get what he wants from him, or trying ease him out of it, knowing he's the only one who can do it.

 

“I will help you start living again, Will. If you will let me.”

 

Will closes his eyes, his forehead against the cold glass.

 

He's not sure he can trust those words. But believes them anyway.


	5. London II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this took a long time. I am sorry.  
> Thank you so much for commenting and being so patient, I appreciate it a lot.  
> As usual, please leave a comment to reassure me that my writing isn't horrible.  
> <3

True to his words, Hannibal does try to persuade him to come out of the cocoon he wrapped himself in, to shake him out of the depression that is weighing him down. The man makes him breakfast every morning, and puts a lot of efforts in taking him out for lunch, in showing him around the city.

 

The problem is, that Will remains mostly unresponsive. He locks himself in the house during those first few weeks, keeping the world outside and allowing sadness to take a hold of him. He goes along if Hannibal insists, tries to accommodate his desires when he feels like because he's too tired to fight, but he's oddly emotionless while he does it.

 

There's no spark of curiosity in his eyes while they walk through the streets safe under cover of their new identities, no apparent excitement about their new life.

 

And after a while, Hannibal simply decides to let him heal at his own pace, without disturbing him. It does help a little. Or he would like to pretend that being alone is what he wants, what he needs to move on.

 

But the truth is, it makes Will feel even lonelier: he's usually not home, busy with his secret bureaucratic dealings he still hasn't told him anything about, and the foreign rooms feel so empty and cold without Hannibal, that he wishes he could just call him and ask him to come home.

 

He doesn't of course: he wraps himself in his brand new clothes that still smell too impersonal to him, that don't hold any memories or bring back any old feeling, and curls on the couch or simply goes back to bed.

 

Will remembers his first months after Hannibal's arrest: he felt lost, without any motivation to actually go on living. After selling his house in Wolf Trap and locking himself away in the little cabin in the middle of nowhere, he concentrate obsessively on caring for his dogs. They became the center of his life and nothing else could generate a reaction in him.

 

He missed Hannibal and tried not to miss him at the same time, not to even think about him even through the trial and the chaos that followed.

 

He knew he was just fooling himself and denying the inevitable: yet he pushes himself in doing it anyway, because he had nothing else other that the thin hope of being able to rid himself of Hannibal forever.

 

And when he met Molly, he did everything he could to shape their relationship so it would be exactly what he felt he needed then. Molly and Walter became tools to him, something to build a new life with. Yet now, when he looks back, he can't remember a genuine moment on his part, one that wasn't carefully planned and rehearsed to be as believable as possible.

 

Three empty years. But at least he had something solid to cling to, even though it only ended up bringing pain to two more innocent people.

 

Now all he has is this tentative balance with Hannibal, the knowledge that if they lose this, they'll have nothing left. But while Hannibal might be able to survive yet another separation, he's not sure he could.

 

Will explores the house while he's alone, tries busying himself with getting any kind of clues about Hannibal's life there out of it. But the apartment very clearly has never been lived in, and has a cold and aseptic feeling, as if it came straight out of a catalog. 

 

There's nothing of him there, no sense of intimacy. And truth be told, Will can't even imagine what kind of life Hannibal could live in a city like London, so full of art and culture, but at the same time removed from that passionate way of living that is so dear to him. 

 

When he looks outside, he feels no desire to go out there and explore, and even when he does it, he always ends up walking endlessly without focusing on anything, with no destination or interest in what surrounds him. 

 

He remember the Cathedral he visited in Palermo, with its catacombs and Abigail's ghost following him around, hurting him and helping him at the same time: Will faced the gift Hannibal left for him there, smelling blood, death and his broken heart in it, tasting it in the back of his mouth. He wanted to blame him for everything, yet all he could do was missing him desperately.

 

There wasn't any room in his heart for anyone else.

 

Once Abigail was gone, he still did not feel alone: because Hannibal was everywhere, all around him. He could almost hear his heartbeat, feel his presence so close he could just reach out to touch him. There was a comfort in knowing death was with him at all times.

 

Will visits a church in London too: a small, forgotten one, where he won't attract any attention. Despite the turmoil inside him, he stays focused when it comes to protect their new identities. 

 

Maybe he'll feel the same as he did in Palermo, recapture that feeling and hold it inside his chest.

 

But there is no peace there, no comfort: Hannibal is not there with him, there is nothing in the silence around him. Will tries to remember prayers from his childhood, but the words sound meaningless in his mouth as he whispers them. Maybe there was a time where faith could help him, but it's long gone.

 

He made his deal with the devil and now he has to live with it, with the knowledge that he can't be saved anymore. He knows he can't go back.

 

When he thinks about it, he wants to hate Hannibal, resort once again to blame him for all that happened. But it doesn't work anymore, because he knows what choices he made.

 

It's living with them the real challenge.

 

In the deepest part of his heart, he wishes he could see Abigail again one last time: maybe he'd be able to hate Hannibal again then, maybe he'd be able to finally go through with killing him or both of them at the same time, like he tried to do that night on the cliff. 

 

No one comes to him: no feelings except the loneliness he would feel without him.

 

Without saying a word or sparing another look to the altar in front of him, he gets up and goes back home.

 

\---

 

“What are we doing here exactly? Where have you been going every morning, and doing what?”

 

Hannibal stops reading and looks up to him, while Will empties his glass and fills it once again. He's not drunk, not even remotely, but the alcohol makes him less worried about saying something wrong. He feels more confident about asking questions he would usually avoid.

 

The man leaves early in the morning, rarely calls him while he's out, and only returns late in the afternoon, locking himself in his office right away after a shower, and only coming out to make dinner.

 

Will can't say he has been devoured by the curiosity of knowing what he's up to, but any topic is good enough for him to start a conversation. They have been avoiding each other, trying to make up for their forced closeness maybe. He enjoys that, the possibility of keeping his mind clear, or being away from Hannibal's influence at least for a while. 

 

But there are times, especially in the evening, where Will misses him, talking to him, being the object of all his attentions. Hannibal is giving him the space he needs, not without a good dose of annoyed looks, but is trying to leave him to deal with himself at his own pace.

 

Will isn't sure how much he should appreciate it or focus on trying to see the subtle manipulation behind it. He decides that he doesn't want to do either right now.

 

“I told you already, Will.”

 

He's calm apparently, the perfect mask of a relaxed peace, but Will can see how his eyes light up at the opportunity of interacting with him again. They have this need for each other that nothing seems to be able to kill or diminish. They can go on without talking for weeks, months, even years: but once they are back in each other's orbit, they just can't pull away from the almost magnetic tension that brings them together.

 

“Yeah, I know. Bureaucratic stuff. But you haven't told me what's that even about.”

 

Hannibal inhales deeply and closes his book, assuming the exact same look he had during their sessions. The dejavu is oddly strong for him right there, both of them illuminated by the fireplace and sitting close together.

 

“I am in the process of putting my financial affairs in order here on the mainland before we move to the island. Of course, the FBI sealed anything I had in my name at the time of my arrest, though I suppose that condition has disappeared with my apparent death. But thankfully, I have several aliases and identities, with related bank accounts and proprieties. Now I'm selling them and transferring the money. It's very simple. We cannot live on air after all.”

 

He nods, feeling oddly embarrassed at the thought of discussing money with him. So far, he hasn't questioned any of it, how they were supporting each other: maybe he didn't want to face the fact that Hannibal is the one providing for them and the subsequent shame he feels about it.

 

“And how much do we have?”

 

Will blushes without knowing why when Hannibal grins, satisfied and gleefully enjoying his questions.

 

“More than enough to be comfortable for the rest of our lives, Will. There is still more to sell in other countries, after we'll be done here. You do not have to worry about the money. But, if you want, I'll show you.”

 

He nods again absently, without looking at him, but staring into the burning coals. A part of him is tempted to just drop the subject, but he feels almost like a child who can't stop poking and bothering a very big and dangerous lion. He knows what he's doing is stupid, yet there he is.

 

“And what do I have to worry about?”

 

His question isn't entirely fair, and he knows it. They both have a lot on their plates, and trying to force the other to face their respective demons won't take them anywhere. But maybe Will doesn't want to go anywhere: he wants to force Hannibal in a corner and see him try hard to reach out to him, to overcome his resistance. 

 

Maybe he just misses the way the man used to look at him, to try to push him out of his comfort zone through his well crafted manipulation. Or maybe he just misses him. But he's still not ready to admit that.

 

“I don't know, Will. I cannot answer that question for you. You know I have been very patient so far; but maybe you should tell me what is on your mind, what is keeping you buried alive in here. Then, maybe I'll be able to help you.”

 

Will swallows, pressing his palms against his eyes and letting out a long sigh. Hannibal echoes it, and he looks so incredibly confused and human in this very moment, so desperate to get closer to him, but also afraid on the rejection he might have to endure.

 

“The problem is, I am not sure I know. If I ever will. The world around me... disgusts me, I feel so removed from it I don't want to go back to it anymore. I want to lock myself in here, wither and die. But I know it won't solve anything, and I know I would never be able to let myself go like that. Truth is, I want to live. I am just not sure I want to live like this.”

 

“Because of me? Of what I am and of what you are afraid I might do to you? Of what your becoming could be?”

 

He shakes his head.

 

“I don't know if I can forget who I was to start over. I can't leave everything behind. What happened to me, to both of us... I can't let it go.”

 

Hannibal makes a curious, but at the same time disappointed face, flaring his nostrils: and Will feels like a misbehaving child despite himself.

 

“You can't get over the resentment you feel towards me for what you lost, for all I took away from you? Or do you miss your old life? Your wife, maybe?”

 

Molly's mention doesn't hurt him as much as it should probably: Will stopped regretting leaving her a long time ago, but the rest hits him hard. Does he still hate Hannibal? Will he ever be able to look at him without blaming him for ruining his life?

 

It's a million dollars question, really. One he asked himself over and over during the last five years. And it's a question that lives right alongside the one that says: will I ever stop loving him? Will I ever hate him enough to get rid of him?

 

Will takes a deep breath, folding himself on the couch like he's trying to disappear from his sight, to be swallowed by a never ending blackness that will finally give him peace.

 

“It's not about you, but about me. You did unspeakable things to me, things no one could ever forgive. Yet I did, and I ran away with you. It was my choice. Now I have to live with it and that... is not as easy for me as it is for you. I'm afraid, you know? Of losing track of myself... I know I have to move forward, but it's hard to do it without feeling like I'm leaving behind pieces of who I am.”

 

Hannibal doesn't look at him now, stare at the flames too and Will watches them as they reflect in his eyes: there is something in his gaze, a longing sadness that he never wanted to see in them, because that would've meant accepting him as a human being, capable of being hurt, of suffering and deserving of his empathy.

 

For years he tried not to empathize with him, not to feel for him: but he never succeeded. Hannibal is a monster, and yet he's capable of being as frail and helpless as Will is. The difference, it's that he's capable of using his weakness to his advantage, while Will always succumbs to his own pain.

 

A pain that, most of the time, is inflicted upon him by Hannibal.

 

Coming to terms with his feelings is the most complex and difficult part of his becoming: accepting that he's where he always wanted to be and leaving behind all the old illusions he held on to for years, means accepting Hannibal completely. With all the consequences that will come with it.

 

“What are you afraid of?”

 

Hannibal smiles sadly, turning to face him. Will isn't sure what he reads in his eyes, but it still leaves him affected. He could say anything, and everything would inevitably force him to face his doubts and the weighs that burden his heart. In a flash, he sees Dolarhyde as he appeared in his nightmare once again: it sends a shiver down his spine and Will has to bite his lips not to let out any sound.

 

In his flaming eyes, Will can see his old life burn away: he sees the ashes from where his new one must begin.

 

“Do you believe I am afraid, Will?”

 

“Yes. I know you: even though I tried not to get too close too you, not to see inside you... I do. And I understand you. You hide it well, better than I do at least, but I can still see it...”

 

Hannibal nods, but his smile is drained away from his lips, and what remains is a melancholia that sticks to both of them cruelly, leaving them deeper in the limbo they have created around themselves.

 

“I have always considered myself capable of adapting to any new situation: I tried to never look back. And, before you came into my life, I always succeeded. Now I find myself dependent on you, desperate enough to keep you in my life to do all sorts of impulsive decisions. You have changed me more than you know; but, apparently, I have not changed you as deeply as I thought. And, perhaps, what scares me is knowing that, if I lose you now to your despair, I will never get you back.”

 

Will bites his lips, rubs his hands on his thighs and tries to take deep, slow breaths to calm down: sometimes, having to confront their past, what they are now and what their relationship has been since it started, crushes him and he feels like he can't up and keep moving anymore, no matter how well he knows he has to.

 

“My life used to be... easier before you. Not better or worse, just... easier.”

 

“Yes, so was mine.”

 

Hannibal inhales deeply, but when Will actually looks at him, he can see he's smiling once again. He's not sure how he feel about letting out his feelings now that they still haven't been properly sorted out, when he still feels dangerously underwater and is struggling to swim upwards. Knowing that Hannibal feels lost too, that he's as afraid as he is helps, but it's not enough.

 

Because the choice is only his.

 

“Are you not going to try to manipulate me so I'll do what you want? You wouldn't have waited so long or being so patient once.”

 

“Manipulation never paid off with you. Maybe this time I want to wait and see what will happen, what decision you will make. A different approach might led to a different result.”

 

Will sighs, feeling so dangerously close to trusting him, to putting his whole life in his hands and welcome him that he almost hate himself for it.

 

“You could've done it from the start... you ruined everything and wasted so many opportunities so many times...”

 

Hannibal says nothing, he doesn't even move or makes any attempt ti justify himself. Will knows he has no regrets, that he doesn't feel sorry for what he dud to him, and the truth is, he learned to accept that side of him as much as he did with the one that empathizes and resonates with him. Hannibal is everything and nothing at the same time, and he still cannot wrap his head around him.

 

Will moves closer to him and, very slowly, puts his head on his shoulder, closing his eyes and smiling just faintly when he feels Hannibal relax against him.

 

He's too tired to say more, to fight more. He did enough for one night, managed to bring them one step closer and to clear what he feels inside a little bit. The world is still grey and dark to him, wrapped in a curtain of sadness and hopelessness he still doesn't know if he can leave behind or not.

 

He remembers too much and still hasn't decided what he wants to discard and what to keep.

 

But now he closes his eyes and breaths in Hannibal's scent, allowing himself one moment of peace.

 

\---

 

It's nearly amusing to observe both of them trying to shorten the distance between them in small and apparently unimportant ways during the next few weeks. Will realizes it pretty soon, but makes no comments and Hannibal doesn't bring any attention to it either. They pretend to be unassuming and keep pushing back the boundaries they created around each other.

 

Hannibal comes back for lunch nearly everyday: he cooks in silence, with Will moving around him, curious and fascinated by seeing him back in shape and active again after so many months of recovery. Sometimes he helps too, allowing him to teach him, suppressing the unsettling memories it brings back. That was in another life, a far away and forgotten one; that's what he tries to tell himself.

 

Most of the times, it's good: on the days when he can gather enough strength to kick back his nightmares and function as normally as he can. Will cooks too sometimes, receiving appreciating smiles and comments from Hannibal.

 

They spend more time together, go out more often, but their conversations are still stifled and awkward and Will still can't overcome his dislike for London. It's still so hard to get rid of everything and start anew. Sometimes, Will wishes they would fight, scream at each other like they did that night in the cabin: that was visceral and genuine, it was real. Their kiss was real too, as was the connection they felt.

 

Letting out all the resentment that still runs under their skin could help: but he's too tired for that now, and settles with an easy peace, with trying to live again. 

 

From time to time, Will still explores the city on his own: he can walk through the streets with no one looking at him, trying to find some relief in the anonymity the surrounds him, in knowing that no one is going to recognize him. And there are moments, when he can even find some beautiful corners that ease his mood.

 

He falls in love with the Museum of Natural History, which is probably not too unexpected for somebody like him, whose fascination with death and destruction brought him where he is now. He walks silently through the rooms, staring at the mounted skeletons of long gone creatures, and almost finds some relief in that sight, in the scent of an old and lurking ghost that follows him around.

 

Will knows death, understands its secrets more than most people, and being there, surrounded by it, it's almost comforting. A part of him imagines his and Hannibal's body at the bottom of the ocean, in the water prison he intended to be their grave. For him, dying is easy.

 

He knows what to expect from it: Will has seen enough of it understand it perfectly.

 

Living, in the other hand, is the real challenge. And the thought occurs to him more and more often, and less like a threat, like an imposition he can't escape, and more like a chance, like the possibility of something good hiding just behind the corner.

 

Will could be dead, Hannibal could be too: and yet they aren't, not yet at least. It's like the universe is telling him that he has to go on, to keep on living, because it's not his time yet, no matter how deeply he might desire it.

 

He walks through the Highgate Cemetery, and as a wild and unwelcoming nature swallows him, a nature that seems to push him away and incorporate him at the same time, once again he dreams and sees himself from the outside. He's scarred and broken, he has nothing left other than a man he should hate, but that he can't help loving.

 

And yet, now Will isn't overwhelmed by depression anymore when he looks at his life and considers his options. Is it because of his conversation with Hannibal? Because now he's not afraid of him anymore and, maybe, he can accept his choices for what they are?

 

He's not sure yet, and maybe he'll never be.

 

The city speaks to him in hushed whispers, with an old, sometimes confused and husky voice that reminds him too much of the world he came from, and that is part of why he can't move on entirely why he's there. Will tries to listen, to tune his empathy to see the secrets it's hiding. He internalizes what he learns, burns into his mind the few images of London he feels close enough to his heart to stomach them despite how hopeless they make him feel.

 

On his good days, he can go back home and keep himself busy.

 

On the bad ones, he doesn't even get out of bed.

 

Will sleeps so he won't have to think or face the world: he locks himself up in his room and abandons himself to dream he rarely remembers, allows them to drag him away from the present, to drown him in their melancholia. Hannibal is in his dream too, of course, but he's never quite real.

 

He's a collection of the long forgotten illusions Will had about him, he's the relics of the many men he thought were him, but that were nothing but an elaborate lie. Sometimes, he sees Molly too, his dogs, even Alana and Jack.

 

But none of them are real: they don't act like the people he used to know, don't even quite look like them, but assume the distorted shape of his hallucinations. They are nothing but ghosts, and maybe he's visiting them like this so he can finally force himself to say goodbye and sever the last ties that hold him back to the man he was.

 

When he wakes up and stumbles through the rooms, he feels even more tired than before, more lost adrift. He's losing too much of himself, and doesn't have enough to fill the voids.

 

One morning, Hannibal comes for him. 

 

The man wakes him up and then takes a seat on a chair near the bed, like a concerned relative visiting a sick one. Will needs a few seconds to properly put him in focus: but then he sits up, rubbing his eyes and feeling his mouth dry and rubbery as he sips some water and then points his eyes on him. It reminds him of Wolf Trap: he wonders if Hannibal is thinking the same thing.

 

He looks genuinely concerned, and Will isn't sure he can bear to see him like this, but he doesn't look away, and instead relaxes against the pillows, taking a very deep breath and feeling his palms itching with the need to touch him, to make sure he's actually there.

 

Hannibal tilts his head, maybe amused by his scrutiny, and smiles in the end, crossing his legs and assuming once again that psychiatrist stance that brings Will back to their earlier days, when he trusted him and saw him as the only beacon of sanity in his life.

 

“This takes me back to our sessions in your office, you know?”

 

“An association that comes naturally to me as well.”

 

Will laughs softly, closing his eyes only for a moment when he inhales deeply and his fingers start playing with a loose strand of his shirt. He sees the two of them so clearly behind his closed lids: Hannibal with his benevolent smile that hid knives and cruelty, and himself with his brain on fire and a desperate hunger for human contact.

 

And then, he looks at them now: not much has changed, except for who they are now. But they are still trying so hard to reach out and to feel less alone, to find in the other a more welcoming place they aren't even sure it can exist.

 

“I miss it, you know? I miss trusting you, believing in you and your words... being sure you genuinely wanted the best for me. It might sounds weird, but... our sessions helped a lot, and I missed when them. I still do: I never told you before because I didn't want to give you the satisfaction of knowing how deeply I relied on you, but there's no point in hiding the truth now. We've gone too far to still play these games.”

 

Hannibal lowers his eyes just for a split second, and Will can read regret in his eyes, but isn't sure what to do with it or how genuine it is.

 

“Do you ever wish you could change what happened? Did it ever occur to you that... you could have just... told me the truth? You... you didn't have to do all that to me, to Abigail.”

 

The man shrugs, but his eyes are clouded, making it hard for Will to know what he's thinking about, if he feels the same longing for who they were or if he's a lot more interested in who they are now. Sometimes he does wonder if Hannibal is capable of sincere regret, of looking back at his past actions and feel the weigh of what is has done, of accepting their consequences.

 

Maybe he doesn't want to hear the answer to that question, because he's not sure how he'd take it: maybe of his wounds are still too fresh to rub salt on them.

 

“I rarely dwell so much on the past, Will: whatever it might be. I prefer to look forward to what the future might reserve me. But we could have our sessions again, if that could help you. Would it help you, Will?”

 

Will closes his eyes again, rubbing them until he sees starts behind his lids and until the world disappears in a million pieces. He feels tired despite sleeping all day, but Hannibal presence still manages to calm him despite the memories it brings up and that aren't entirely pleasant. He tries to find an answer capable of letting out his feeling, of really expressing what he wants to say: but thought and words are hard to put together for him lately.

 

“I don't know what could help me. I'm not sure anything still can; sometimes I just... want to let go of what little of me still clings to life, actually I just wish I had the strength to do that. But I know I don't: so I stay in this limbo, not knowing exactly where I'm going...”

 

“And I imagine that being in a city you so deeply dislike it's not helping your recovery at all...”

 

“Is this a recovery, Hannibal? Do you think I'm recovering?”

 

The man nods vaguely, like the question surprises him.

 

“I think you are grieving: you lost so much, you will lose even more in the future. That is something you are still coming to terms with. I am not sure I can reach deep enough inside of you to be able to help you, but, of course, I am willing to try.”

 

Will makes a face at that, at the simple way Hannibal uses to lay down in front of him all his deepest secrets and pains, making them look much smaller and easier to overcome than they are in reality. He takes a very deep breath.

 

“Once I told you that you wouldn't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed...”

 

“And I am sure being under my care and Bedelia's has not changed your opinion on that subject. Perhaps even made your position more extreme.”

 

There is something in his voice when he mentions Bedelia that makes him look up immediately, a crack of annoyance that for a brief second sparks in his eyes: Hannibal always hated other people's influences on him, and this is probably the deepest possible blow he could inflict him on that side.

 

Will wondered how deeply Dr. Du Maurier influenced him during their escape, what exactly they put into each other's heads. He's not even sure what she put in his own, actually, but he hears the lingering echo of her words still ringing in his hears.

 

“She told me I was Blue Beard's last wife once.”

 

Hannibal rises a corner of his mouth in a hint of a smile, that is only revolved to him and no one else. Will relaxes against the pillow behind his back and sighs.

 

“Would I be Blue Beard in this analogy then?”

 

Will is tempted to look away, because they are threading in that unknown land that is trying to define their relationship, to explain his nature, while he's not sure that is even possible for the two of them. But he keeps staring into his eyes, reading nothing but the knowledge that Hannibal is, at times, as confused and scared as he is.

 

He's just a lot better at hiding it than he is.

 

“I think we both are: we saw each other with our masks, found out all our secrets... and yet we survived. I'm not sure how damaged that left us, though. Maybe too much to go on and function as we used to. We went to far in the depths of who we are, and maybe... we lost ourselves down there.”

 

Hannibal considers his words carefully, smiling subtly and nodding after a moment. And Will watches him, fascinated by the way his face changes expression in such an almost invisible way that forces him not to look away.

 

“An interesting point of view; and most likely the right one. But at least we are left with the comfort of not being alone. We might be broken, but we are still alive and together.”

 

He nods, even though he feels a heavy weigh on his chest that hovers on him, threatening to suffocate him. Hannibal could lose everything, could disappear into nothing, but he would still be happy as long as Will was with him. 

 

And, maybe, Will would be too of he let himself go.

 

“Sometimes I still feel like we shouldn't be alive... that our survival was a tragic mistake the universe, the karma... whatever you want to call it, it's going to regret one day.”

 

“What matters to me is if you regret it, Will. You wanted us to die, but we survived: do you regret it?”

 

Will shakes his head after only a heartbeat, because the answer to that question is a surprisingly easy one: he wanted Hannibal gone from his life, dead or otherwise, for so long that for quite some time he could not imagine feeling anything else for him other than resentment. He's not even sure when that changed, at what point he came to accept all the feelings that were bottled deep inside of him.

 

A part of him wants to be dead, but Will doesn't want them to die anymore. Death wouldn't make a difference, it wouldn't help or safe anyone: in his twisted image, his sacrifice was to be a last heroic act.

 

But death is just final: it's not heroic, not for him at least.

 

He wants to live, he wants Hannibal to live. Maybe Will wants to finally see what a life with him can be, how much it will change both of them, where will it take them.

 

“What I want is to find some place where I can at peace. But I am not sure it's possible for me.”

 

Will feels split in two different and equally strong halves that try to take control of him, to dictate his actions: one that wants to plunge into the depression that's holding him back and suffocating him. The other that wants to start living again.

 

Hannibal is in both of them, because by now he's everywhere in his life: he's the cruel monster that reminds him of all he lost, of all he cruelly took from him. He's the enemy, the threat he should neutralize, but that he doesn't feel strong enough to fight.

 

But yet, he's also all he has left, and deep down, all he wants.

 

Hannibal reaches out to touch his arm, his fingers surprisingly cold against his skin, and Will recoils just for a moment, feeling himself shiver at that contact, before he very subtly gives in to it. They look at each other for a long moment, and Will can almost feel Hannibal's eyes piercing through him, trying to read all his secrets right from his bones.

 

And he lets him, because he's too tired to keep hiding.

 

In the end, the man gets up very slowly, like he's feeling unbelievably tired and just that simple act is taking away the little energies he has left. Will remembers how vulnerable they both were in the cabin, how weak they allowed themselves to be: it's something that makes his heart ache in ways he just can't ignore. That gives him hopes for a future he's not sure can exist.

 

“Would you come with me, Will? There is something I want to show you.”

 

\---

 

“Where are we going?”

 

Hannibal turns his head slightly to look at him as they walk in silence: Will doesn't know the city well enough to guess, but knows that wherever they are going, it's probably very important to him. The man smiles, his lips curling up just enough to show it to him, but then he looks away, back to the busy street in front of them.

 

“You will see soon enough. I fear I neglected you too much during our stay here. I've always wanted to show you the world, Will, to make you appreciate the beauty of places you never thought you could see: yet I didn't. Maybe I am trying to start, at last.”

 

Will shakes his head and takes a deep breath, inhaling the suffocating smell of the air all around him. The people pass him by without sparing them another look, ignoring both of them as if they didn't exist.

 

During his life, Will was far too used to stand out, to be in the limelight whether he wanted it or not: this invisibility is a blessing he has a hard time getting used to. Maybe he's afraid things might suddenly go to hell, if he attracts too much attention, if he's too loud; maybe he's just scared this feeling might go away.

 

Hannibal doesn't say anything else, as they reach their rented car and then drive towards their destination. Will closes his eyes for a while, lulled by the movements and by the soft classical music all around him. The man is quiet, but he can feel his presence there with him, and that is enough to help him relax; he still feels so unbelievably tired he fears he might just fall asleep right there, almost wishes he could not wake up ever again.

 

The world is a blur he can't quite make sense of, one he's starting not wanting to make sense of anymore. Confusion is incredibly appealing when there's nothing else to cling to, when all he has are exposed wounds that just won't heal, no matter what he does, and life won't stop rubbing salt on his battered skin.

 

When Hannibal stops in front of the Highgate cemetery, Will has a dejavu of the catacombs of Palermo, of the little graveyard in Lithuania, of all the tombs the two of them have left in their trail. Death followed them from the very start and is refusing to let them go. Coming to terms with it, might be what his becoming truly is.

 

They exchange a look, a long and deep one that reaches out inside their hearts and speaks of their fears, of their hopes: this moment right here might be what they need to finally move on or what will destroy them forever. Will is afraid, and what comforts him is realizing that Hannibal is too. So he smiles.

 

For a while, they walk in perfect silence, surrounded by the dead that lie quiet and mute in their graves, but always keeping them under their watchful eyes, by the wild nature and but nothing else by its sounds.

 

“I came here on my own, you know? While I was trying to explore the city...”

 

“Yes, I figured you might have done that. After all, you are naturally drawn to the fine line between life and death, and to all that reminds you of it. What do you feel about this place?”

 

Will takes a deep breath: his nostrils fill with the scents of winter mixed with the sweet smell of decay, of abandonment and careful neglect. Everything around screams of so many different pasts, sorrows, joys and existences, too many for him to register them all. He's overwhelmed by the absence of life around him, yet destructively attracted to it as well.

 

“I feel lost, like we are stranded on an island in the middle of the sea, so far away from the rest of the world, locked away in our little corner of loneliness. And that there is no hope for us to be rescued... yet, I am not afraid. I would accept to die there, I could let go and finally rest...”

 

Hannibal smiles: they sit down on one of the benches, right in front of a grave so consumed by time that he can't read anything on it. Will can't help wondering who's entombed there, what happened to them, to their family... one could go mad in a place like this, trying to image the history behind every tomb, behind every person laid to rest there.

 

“It is for this cemetery, and the others around the city, that I decided to buy a house in London as well, despite knowing that I would never get much use out of it anyway.”

 

That sudden admission makes him turn around to face him, and for the first time since leaving America, Will looks at him, truly, analyzing all he sees on his face as deeply as he can, eating it up. Hannibal has gained back nearly all the weigh lost between prison and their recovery, his hair is back to their old length and strength seems to have returned to him fully, leaving no apparent traces of weakness behind.

 

But Will knows better: there is something about him, a frailty that he reads in the sharp corners of his face, in the sunken lines that left marks on his face that just won't go away: Hannibal is different now, he's less grounded, less strong, less sure of his role in the world. It's not a noticeable change, not even remotely comparable to his scars, or to the way his own life was destroyed and his past self erased with it. Yet he can see it: in the different way he dresses, in the hint of unkempt beard, in the new shine in his eyes.

 

It feels him with a tenderness he shouldn't feel for him, one he should have abandoned so long ago, and that only grows instead.

 

“Why?”

 

Hannibal takes a deep breath.

 

“My mother's family had Jewish origins: she died before I could learn more about it, so it remained something that was always distant for me, a piece of the puzzle of my existence and little more: but after my sister died... that part of my heritage came back to me. You have seen the graveyard in Lithuania I am sure, and Mischa's tomb. It is not left abandoned without a purpose. Ancient Jewish cemeteries are usually not well taken care of, and nature takes over eventually, swallowing the bodies, returning them to the earth they came from.”

 

Will nods vaguely: he remembers the graveyard, the feeling of being watched by something, or someone, waiting in the darkness around him: but he says nothing about it, keeps that secret even now, after all these years. Was Mischa still there? Maybe waiting for Hannibal to come back to her? The question plagues him still, and he has no answers.

 

And bringing it up would not help right now, so he quietly waits for Hannibal to continue.

 

“I could not go back there, for the obvious reasons you know so well. I could not see her grave again; it was left exposed to the wild force of nature, and maybe that I why I wanted a house here too. Because Highgate reminded me of that little cemetery, of my sister laying there. I could see it reflected in the growing trees, in the untamed bushes, and I could feel her a little closer. And the thought of her returning to a pure and uncorrupted nature is strangely poetic, don't you think?”

 

Will doesn't stop looking at him, not even as that mental image sinks into him, opening under his feet the full weight of Hannibal and of his secrets, of his unspoken pain he can't even force himself to face. They are so full of contradictions, so different in the way they handle their sufferings, and yet now he can't help wanting to lean into him so, at least, they could feel each other close enough to erase everything else.

 

Hannibal's eyes wander through the graves that surround them, and Will feels the heavy hand of death hovering over him, heavy and cold. He knows that in order to move on, he must shake it off, but he's not sure if the two of them will ever be able to do that.

 

“Yeah, I think it is. Would you ever go back to see her again? You could now: there is nothing there to stop you anymore. Maybe you could find some closure...”

 

The man shakes his head slowly, never looking away from the fixated point he has been staring at for the past few minutes. Will's fingers itch with the need to touch him, but he's not sure they could both handle it now or if their nerves and skins are too raw and too exposed for that, if that touch would burn and hurt them too much.

 

“No, Will. There is nothing for me there, no closure: only a dark past I do not want to awake. I will never see Lithuania again, and I made my pace with this notion a long time ago.”

 

“And you will you ever make peace with Mischa's death and let her finally go?”

 

He knows it's not a fair question, because he's the first one who's completely unable to move on from the dead of his past, from the lives he left behind and that he can't let go just yet. Hannibal had decades to let his grief sour inside his heart, and never quite moved away from that deep feeling of loss and despair.

 

In his mind, they are boats lost at sea, with no purpose or destination: Will remembers himself sailing away to go find him, not sure what he was going to do with him, with him feelings for him, with his guilt and all the blood on his hands upon finding him. Maybe he still doesn't: the choices he made were an excuse to buy himself time, to delude himself he could have another life, but, in truth, knowing they would always end up as they are now.

 

Alone without the other.

 

Hannibal, of course, smiles: he takes an odd kind of satisfaction in watching him poke at all his sore spots, like he was just waiting for Will to start skinning him alive and peel his skin off to unveil his secrets.

 

“I am not sure that could ever happen, Will. Just like you'll never truly be able to let who you were go. Even in that, we are alike.”

 

Will takes a deep breath and folds himself tighter in the jacket he's wearing, as the cold wind blows all around them: the city, the world and the rest of humanity are so far away from them it almost feels like they do not exist at all. Will focuses on his heartbeat, on the quiet way Hannibal breaths and asks himself if this could be the peace he always looked for.

 

Right now, there is nothing that is not encapsulated in their life together and in the silence around them.

 

“Bedelia said you are in love with me...”

 

Hannibal turns to finally face him, but there is nothing on his face except a hard and, again, almost bothered by this new intermission in his private feelings.

 

“Do you want to know if that is true?”

 

Will smiles and shakes his head. He moves closer to him and watches Hannibal as he subtly flares his nostrils and, for half a second, looks close to wanting to bolt away from him: maybe he's too exposed and raw right now, too aware of how deep Will can see. But he wants nothing from him, nothing other than an answer.

 

“No, I know it's true: I knew it from the very start. It was just too hard for me to accept that your love for me could not stop you from hurting me and the people I loved...”

 

Hannibal nods vaguely, with a smile appearing on his lips once again. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath: Will watches his body, breathes in as he does and feels more connected to him than he ever did since they killed Dolarhyde together. Hannibal opens doors inside himself for him to see, so he can peaks in and eats out what he finds there: and for the first time, Will doesn't look away.

 

“I acknowledge how terrible what I did to you was, I don't deny it. Neither have I regretted the majority of my choices.”

 

Will nods awkwardly.

 

“I don't expect you to: you are who you are. I trust you to be exactly that and nothing more. I am here because I accept and see the truth of you.”

 

“We are both exceptionally good at hurting each other. You too are a master of the art; and that was something you used to long for, wasn't it? Hurting me, making me bleed, taking everything away from me.”

 

It's a simple, harsh and sad truth: Will accepts it in silence, but without looking away.

 

There was a time when there would've been nothing but hatred in his heart, nothing but a heavy and solid resentment: he doesn't quite know when or how it disappeared.

 

“I don't want to hurt you anymore.”

 

Hannibal smiles once again, but it's a sad smile, one that is full of nostalgia, even as it is colored in a subtle hope for a future they're both still not sure they can have together.

 

Once again, Will puts his head on his shoulder, clinging to that one, single contact to drown his fears in that feeling.

 

“Neither do I, Will.”

 

\---

 

That night, Will enters Hannibal's bedroom as quietly as he can, finding him busy reading a book: the man seems genuinely surprised to see him there, while Will tries to master up the courage to do what he has in mind, biting his lips as he closes the door and then approaches the bed, still in silence, not saying anything just yet.

 

Hannibal follows all his movements, staring at him with an almost hungry look in his eyes, curious to see what he will do. There is a heavy and nearly suffocating atmosphere around them, one that reminds Will once again of their nights in the cabin. He misses them, but can't admit it out loud.

 

But after their day together, after sharing all they did, he needs this moment. That's why he slips under the covers, reaching out to lean into the warmth of Hannibal's body: the man takes a very deep breath, almost full of sincere surprise and honest relief, like he cannot believe this is happening.

 

He puts the book away and focuses on him. Will never felt beautiful or particularly attractive in his life, but he does when Hannibal looks at him like nothing else exists in the world around them, and he is all that matters.

 

“Do you mind if I sleep here?”

 

Hannibal considers him for a long moment: there is still a resistance in trusting each other that they struggle to overcome, because they're too used to see manipulation, lies and darkness in all their gestures. But there must be something on his face that wins him over, that persuades him of his honesty: maybe it's how tired and helpless he feels, how desperate to have this one moment of peace he is.

 

He smiles in the end, turning off the light and laying down with him, caressing his scarred cheek with a tenderness that hurts him more than the knife that pierced his bully did: because he can handle Hannibal's violence, his brutality and cruelty; but accepting his love and his gentleness it's harder.

 

“Of course, Will.”

 

Hannibal sighs as he leans into the warm space between their bodies, his eyes on him despite the darkness that surrounds them: Will feels so tired, his body aching so painfully he just wishes he could finally fall asleep, and yet he lies there wide awake, waiting for his to say something. The man gently touches his face again, the tip of his fingers insisting on the scar, pressing into it lightly.

 

"This is unexpected, I must say. I thought you were avoiding being so physically close to me."

 

Will smiles.

 

"I wasn't really being subtle, I guess. Sometimes I still believe that touching you would... poison me, that with that simple contact you could make me do anything you want. But that's just another excuse to try to stay away from you even when I need it the most."

 

"A new way of punishing yourself, of denying yourself what could help you."

 

He nods, and Hannibal sighs in response. Will reaches out to put a hand on his chest, right where his heart is beating: it's so calm, so steady, and if he could just focus on that feeling, he's sure he could fall asleep and never wake up again for a very long time.

 

"And what changed now?"

 

"I'm tired, Hannibal. I feel lonely: and I don't have anyone but you."

 

They both stay awake for a long time, buried in a deep and thick silence that beats inside their skulls louder than their breaths, lost in their thoughts. Hannibal has a hand on his hip, but other than that, they're barely touching.

 

Will feels torn between the need to cling to him and staying away because he doesn't want to get this close to him, even though it was his own choice.

 

At the end of the day, that is the truth he has to accept: that he's there with Hannibal because he wants to, because he always wanted to no matter what happened between them. Maybe he should feel disgusting and hate himself for this, but he can't anymore. That part of him died, while the rest of him survived.

 

Will closes his eyes and moves closer to him enough to feel the heart of his body and the gentle sound of his breathing. Then, very slowly, he falls asleep.

 

And the same scene repeats over and over during the following nights: they never reach the same intimacy they shared in the cabin, they never kiss, but it's enough to shorten the bridges that formed between them, brings them much closer.

 

Hannibal reads to him sometimes, or they talk until they both abandon themselves to sleep. And when he wakes up lying on his chest, Will sometimes doesn't want to move away.

 

It's hard to come to terms with his need to have Hannibal close, to swallow the satisfaction he reads on his face at every move Will makes to bring them closer. A part of him still holds his old life dear, remembers the past because he just cannot let it go, but it grows smaller everyday.

 

It still hurts terribly to look back to what he lost: but it's a sweeter and duller pain, not the numbing and terrible one he experienced before. His wounds are still fresh, but they are healing.

 

Soon they'll move away from London, on to the next stop on their road to Santorini: maybe, Will, thinks sat night, he's finally ready to forgive himself and let go of his depression.

 

Whatever Hannibal is thinking about, what affairs he's still sorting out, remain a mystery. But every night, Will goes to bed with him and knows that no matter what, they are both in this new life together: only now it doesn't look as bleak and hopeless as it used to.

 

Will doesn't dream: he just focuses on his heartbeat and drowns his fears in that sound.

 

And when he wakes up in the morning, curled against his side or with his face buried against his chest, Will observes Hannibal while he's still asleep, runs imaginary fingers across the lines he reads on his skin, along his mouth and the curve of his eyes and nose.

 

For a few, long minutes, he can forget who they are and where they come from: he can allow himself to sink deep into the heat between their bodies, pretend that there's nothing but kindness in Hannibal, erase their past with the simple blink of an eye. The silence is so thick and heavy around them that Will could lose himself in it, and when the sunlight gently caresses them, it gives the whole world around them a golden tint.

 

It's the illusion of a fairytale's world: something he knows doesn't exist, but that he can't help believing in. Believing so much, dreaming of a future with him not dominated by blood, violence, death and loss it's dangerous for him, who bears the marks and scars of Hannibal's love right on his skin as a constant reminder.

 

Yet there he is: looking at him and feeling himself filled with a deep longing for what might never happen.

 

Hannibal opens his eyes slowly, blinking a few times to remind himself where he is and who he is: he looks so vulnerable like that, so defanged and stripped of the dark aura that follows him at all times. He smiles at Will when he turns around to face him.

 

They both know this is just a truce, a moment when they abandon their weapons and try to heal their wounds. There's a softly diffused light in Hannibal's eyes, and Will thinks it might be in his own too.

 

And so he smiles back.

 

\---

 

Will didn't expect those to be their last two weeks in London, and so experiences a slow, but steady awakening, with his mind silently coming to terms with their presence there and with the life that is stretching out in front of them.

 

Hannibal seems to understand that, and so indulges him: takes him to the theater, out for dinner almost every night, makes him feel safe even in a city he still cannot seem to fit in. Will remembers the confessions they shared at Highgate, tries to adapt himself to his point of view and feel what he feels: and it becomes less frightening as days go by, less overwhelming.

 

He can see the beauty in the streets and monuments that surround him, even though he doesn't feel part of it. He breathes in deeply and memorizes how the air smells, how walking through London feels like, and keeps inside himself all their memories there, together with the shards and remains of his old life. 

 

Sometimes, they merge together: Will finds himself dreaming of Hannibal there in London, but reenacting old scenes, like a snapshot that replays over and over in a million different settings. He dreams about his dogs, about what he left behind and what he still misses; but almost never of Molly, and he's not sure if it's because he voluntarily let go of his memories of her, or because they just faded away on their own.

 

Maybe he's so focused on waking up from the deep slumber he plunged in, that he choose to forget life has to move on, and so do they. 

 

Hannibal reminds him one night while they are having dinner; he doesn't look different from the usual, but when Will pays closer attention to him, he sees a distant and solemn expression on his face.

 

“I have almost concluded my business here in the city; we could easily leave in a few days, once the last issues have been settled.”

 

Will inhales deeply, putting down his fork and closing his eyes for a long moment: he tries to breath slowly, not showing any panic, but the truth is, he feels the same fear of moving on he experienced back in the cabin. It's less intense now, but still lurking under his skin: because, once again, he knows that another chapter of their life in ending.

 

And that there won't be any going back for them after they'll leave.

 

Hannibal looks on the fence about his reaction, waiting to see how hard he'll have to fight him and what he'll say.

 

“And where would we go?”

 

“France. I have a house on the coast of Normandy: I haven't been in there in a few years, even since before my incarceration, but I have called in advance and it'll be ready for us next week.”

 

“Are you sure it's wise to go to France? Couldn't someone recognize you there? Why can't we just go to Santorini already?”

 

He's surprised by how apparently apathetic his voice sounds, even while there's a turmoil inside of him and all he wants is Hannibal telling him they're going to be okay, even when he's perfectly aware neither of them can do that.

 

The man smiles and then sips more of his wine, and Will isn't sure he's stalling on purpose to put more pressure on him or if he's just trying to find the right words once again, since he too seems to be struggling with it lately. They're still trying to reconnect, and it's not always easy.

 

“We'll be in Santorini soon enough, Will. Have patience. Answering your other question... yes, there is of course the risk I might be recognized: but it's a very remote possibility and I feel confident we handle our stay there just fine.”

 

Will rubs his temples and tries to not, even thought it's hard for him to stop the sudden panic that is filling him: he's afraid of his life with Hannibal, and yet he's terrified he might lose him. It's such a deep and terrible contradiction that he's not sure how to fit inside himself.

 

“I was just starting to get used to London... now we're going to move again. I feel like I can't hold on to anything for too long before it's taken away from me...”

 

“You will manage, I am sure of it. I know it's not easy for you: but we'll soon have no more business here, and I know how much you dislike the city. This new change might be just what you need to really move on from your old life.”

 

Hannibal refills their glasses again, and Will stares at him making these simple, mundane gestures like they are as full of meaning as their killing Dolarhyde together: the man rarely wears three piece suits at dinner anymore, has abandoned much of his old habits and luxuries, yet he still looks so dignified and elegant, mesmerizing Will.

 

They are still, at their cores, the same: all they do is change the scenario in front of them. It's a knowledge that calms him somehow: Will knows who he is, and never knew himself as much as does when he is with Hannibal. He just has to accept that.

 

“Fine then. Let's go to Normandy.”

 

Hannibal smiles at him in such a deep, complete way, that Will feels like he can't look away from him, only keep staring with equal intensity, their eyes locked together. He sees himself so clearly there, but also wrapped in an aura of idealization that scares and attracts him at the same time. He wants to touch Hannibal, but the electricity running between them makes him afraid of every possible sparkle that could ignite something neither of them could stop.

 

Will sighs deeply, feeling suddenly tired and with his stomach completely closed by the tension running through his body.

 

“Are you afraid, Will?”

 

Despite his best judgment, he nods, exposing his soft underbelly to the savage and cruel violence of Hannibal's claws and teeth, not knowing if he will attack or not. They still walk on a fine line between loving and destroying, not sure where they'll land in the end.

 

“Yeah, I am: because every time we move on, I know we won't be coming back, that we are leaving a part of us behind and losing it forever. Sometimes I just... don't know how many times I'll be able to handle it.”

 

“You have accepted the ending of your old life, more or less. Is it still so traumatic for you?”

 

Will looks away, biting his lips and holding his heavy words in his mouth for a long and tense moment, because he's not sure what might come out of it. Hannibal looks at him curious and expectant, but still treats him with a gentleness that it's almost unbearable, like he's afraid to press too hard and break him, tearing him apart with the strength of his hunger.

 

He sighs and closes his eyes.

 

“It's always going to be traumatic for me. No matter how much time passes or how deeply I change. You're used to shredding your old skin to become someone else, you can leave the past behind because you've come to terms with separating yourself from all the different lives you've lived. I'm not like that: I bleed and break every single time, it hurts me, and I fear I might just disappear one day, if I keep losing parts of myself. I'm afraid of that pain. I don't want to suffer like that anymore.”

 

Much to his surprise, because Will knows him far too well by now, knows that he always tries to have the last words and to infuse each one of them with as much manipulation as he can, Hannibal simply rests his back against the chair, his hands abandoning the cutlery to curl on his lap, and says nothing for a while, letting the classical background music fill the silence.

 

In the dim light around them, Will feels almost lost, surrounded by thick shadows that threaten to swallow him and Hannibal whole, not only destroying them, but also keeping them apart. It hurts to want to touch him, to want to ask him to keep him close, and it hurts even more not to know what will happen to them.

 

If what they have is permanent or if it's going to fall apart.

 

Will can't help wondering if Hannibal could survive without him, he could move on and find himself a new place to build a new life. He knows he couldn't and there is an odd sense of calm in that realization.

 

When the man finally looks at him, he sees something in his eyes that he had never noticed before: a deep and savage fear of loneliness, of losing Will right when he finally has him. They both sigh, almost in unison. 

 

“Would you trust me with trying to keep all the pieces of you together?”

 

Will can't help smiling, even though it's a grin that painfully stretches on his lips and clashes with the feeling of being about to fall apart that is filling him.

 

“Even the ones you don't like? The memories of the people I used to love and that are not you, the part of me that resists your influence? And all my... mixed feelings about you?”

 

Hannibal nods quietly: his eyes are unreadable, but he can't help find an odd sense of peace in them.

 

Will bites his lips, feeling something gripping his stomach, almost to the point where it hurts. But he knows what his answer is going to be, and for once, he's not afraid to face his feelings, even thought it hurts to confront those parts of himself so intertwined with Hannibal and that darkness he brings with him.

 

“I don't know... trusting you is difficult for me, it's something I'm still struggling to deal with. But you can try: I guess at this point, we both must at least do that.”

 

Hannibal, slowly and giving him all the time in the world to pull away if he wanted to, covers his hand with his own. And in that contact, Will relaxes despite the shadows following them.

 

That night in bed, there is a subtle distance between them that feels almost impossible to close even though Hannibal still has a hand on his hip and Will leans into that contact and into their shared body heat. They're both far away, deep in their thoughts and in their struggle to understand where tonight's events leave them.

 

Will would love to fall asleep and forget the world around him, but for once, he fights against that feeling and stays wide awake instead. He wants to see the end of this, needs a definitive resolution to the doubts and pain that is filling and numbing his spirit, even though he knows this could hurt even more.

 

If they are going to really move on, they need to understand each other, be sure this is what they both want.

 

He waits there in the dark for Hannibal to say something, anything at all; the man sighs in the end, slightly pulling him closer.

 

"What came to your mind that hurt you so much when we first got here? I did not want to ask before, I wanted to let it go... but it seems like I cannot hold the question back anymore, if we really are to move on together to our next destination."

 

Will closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath, his mind bringing him back to that day, to the image swirling inside his brain and the emptiness they made him feel: opening up like that with Hannibal is always a risk, one he used to fear and try to avoid at all costs.

 

Now, what would be the point? They saw each other in the clearest and most violent way, both at their worst and at their best. Even that part of himself that longs for the ephemeral life he lost and that he usually tries to hide, it's out in the open now.

 

“I remembered when my wife and her son moved into my cabin; I had insisted for months, trying to coax and persuade them. A part of me thought it was the only possible choice, I wanted her close to me at all times, I needed her to be there so I would forget... she was supposed to help me forget. I knew they hated the idea, but I kept insisting; and when they finally gave in and did what I wanted... it suddenly didn't feel like a victory anymore to me. I realized that it was just the beginning on the end of whatever life I could have with them. The rest... was borrowed time. Nothing else.”

 

Hannibal says nothing, but something in his eyes hardens as Will whispers to him, sharing his secrets with him in the warm and charged space between them.

 

“Does it bother you to hear me talk about her?”

 

“Yes, somehow. But not because I fear you might still want to go back to her; but because she was supposed to help you forget me. Forgetting you is unthinkable for me; it is not pleasant to know you wanted that at some point.”

 

It's such a deeply human reaction, so charged with Hannibal's fear of losing him, that Will can't help smiling. A part of him can't help enjoying inflicting these subtle pain on him, even though he knows it'll never match the one he felt in the past.

 

Hannibal sighs and the grip on his hip becomes stronger. At times, when looking at him, Will can't even recognize the puppet master that used to be able to fool and control everyone as easily as he killed, manipulated, lied and destroyed the lives of all around him, in the man before him. But all it takes it's the sparkle in his eyes, the strong, solid and dangerous pressure of his hands to remind him of who he is.

 

He adapts to every situation like a chameleon.

 

Now, however, Will knows there truly is some degree of genuine frailty and weakness in him, and that he's exposing them to his eyes on purpose. He just can't bring himself to ignore it or reject him.

 

“Are you afraid that moving away from another safe place could eventually destroy us too? Or is it the fear that it might not happen what holds you back? Maybe the reason why you so deeply clung to your wife was because you knew it would eventually end. You could control it. But you cannot control this.”

 

“Neither can you. And of the two of us, you're the one who always laid out the most successful plans. So far, I still managed to mess them up.”

 

Hannibal runs a hand through his hair and down to his cheek with just the tip of his fingers touching his skin; Will closes his eyes just for a moment, because giving in to the intimacy between too much and too suddenly it's dangerous for both of them, yet in that one moment, he feels at peace.

 

The distance disappeared, smothered in between their words: he could just give in completely, the desire to do it it's so strong... but then Hannibal pulls his hand away and inhales deeply, breaking the moment and bringing him back to the present. Will can hear his heart thundering in his chest, pressing against his ribs like it wants to break through and escape. 

 

Hannibal smiles and he can see it even through the shadows around them; it seems to him that it might be the best description of their relationship.

 

“If I did not wanted you to mess up my plans and my life, Will, I would've just killed you a long time ago.”

 

Will smiles back and knows that it is true.


	6. Thunders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello everyone.  
> It is I again.   
> With a new chapter at last.  
> Enjoy!

It's still dark outside when they land in Paris, but the city retains that bright luminescence that only huge metropolises have even while they're asleep. Will stares at it from the window, their flight quiet as it descends, and memorizes the colors and feelings that the vision awakes in his heart.

 

He saw London for the first time in the dying light of the day, in its busiest hour, crawling with life and movement, and even then it looked like an enormous dying animal to him. Even clouded in shadows, Paris looks a hundred times more alive and he can lose himself in that idea.

 

Something about it seems to relax him, leaving him surprisingly in good mood. Hannibal is silent next to him, immersed in his book. When Will turns to look at him, the man rises his head only for a moment and smiles. It's a good smile, and Will reciprocates.

 

The Charles de Gaulle airport too is under that same almost unnatural spell of calm and silence that filled their journey so far. Their plane was almost empty and only a few small groups of people occupy the lobby. Will can't help noticing how different it all feels for him now when compared to their arrival in Europe, where he couldn't make sense of anything and the world was crumbling down right in front of his eyes.

 

He came a long way. Now, there's the solid certainty that this is the life he chose to live and he can cling to it. Still, Will welcomes that atmosphere because it gives him time think, to adjust to this new change.

 

At times, he can still feel the tendrils of depression and despair lapping at his skin, trying to pull him back into the lair of madness and self-destruction he spent so many months wrapped into. The last few weeks, with the preparations for their departure occupying his mind so completely, gave him a distraction. Now all he has is the curiosity for their new life and what awaits him there.

 

Will takes a very deep breath and the airport around him fills his lungs with an aseptic and distant smell. He clings to the bag in his hand and follows Hannibal in silence.

 

“Are we going to spend the night in Paris?”

 

He sees Hannibal takes a deep breath as they sit down to drink their coffee. Maybe he thinks they're about to have another argument on their escape plan like they did back on their arrival in London, but for once Will has no intention of going there. His watch tells him it's something after in the morning, and he's starting to feel tired. He wouldn't mind sleeping a few hours.

 

“We could if you wanted. I am sure I could find us a couple of hotel rooms in the city even at this hour.”

 

It occurs to him just now that these are the first words they exchanged since leaving London. Will knows that no matter what progresses they made in the last few weeks, the road ahead is still long and tortuous. Nothing between them can be resolved easily. And they're still dancing around each other as if they were both savage fires ready to consume the other.

 

Will sighs, rubbing his eyes and biting into the stale ham and cress sandwich they're sharing. 

 

“Do we need to go to Paris? Or can we go to the new house right away? How far is...”

 

“Octeville sur Mer, Will. That is where we are going, you should memorize it. The house is ready and restocked for us. It should take less than three hours to get there. What should we do?”

 

He shrugs, feeling the usual pressure of having to making a decision under Hannibal's watchful eye, knowing that the man would diligently agree to everything. He loves to pretend to give him all the power, fooling him to believe he is in control. Will knows his tricks, yet he falls for them every time.

 

“We can go if you're not too tired of driving. We could take turns if you wanted, but... yeah, I'd prefer to just go home.”

 

Hannibal relaxes in his chair for the first time since their landing. Maybe only now he's fully realizing that Will didn't run away, that he's still here and slowly, very slowly but steadily, accepting their future together. And the way it hits him and how the emotions show up on his face is almost amusing.

 

He can't help smiling.

 

“You seem a lot more at ease with yourself now that we are here. I am glad to see that, Will.”

 

There so many utterly humane traits in Hannibal that are coming out at the most unexpected times that Will still has no idea how to deal with them. He's sure some of them are being carefully exposed on purpose to fuel whatever attachment to him Will's starting to develop. But the rest... those are his masks falling on the floor and shattering in a million pieces one by one.

 

Hannibal always knew how to nurture affection and dependence in him, how to make himself fundamental in Will’s life. But now he is very much aware of how slippery their relationship is, and is carefully navigating his way around him.

 

“For now at least. We'll see how things will go once we're there. But... yeah, I can't deny that I feel much better now.”

 

People move around them, maybe not even seeing them. Maybe they hold their eyes on them for a couple of seconds, wondering who they are. And yet, it feels like they’re completely alone, and to Will’s ears, the silence is absolute, almost impossible to be real. His mind is isolating them, so he can look at Hannibal and try to crack the last few shells that separate him from the dark matter he’s made of. 

 

Isn't that what they've been trying to do from the very start? To tear each other to pieces and find out if there is room inside them for their twisted attraction? Only now they have finally settled into this quiet and distant observation, at least for the time being.

 

“It feels so long ago, doesn't it? The FBI, the hospital, the Red Dragon... all of that.”

 

“Yes, there are times where I feel like we are on a completely different timeline, separated from the rest of the world. We are moving at a much slower pace, collecting the pieces we left along the way and mending our bodies and souls.”

 

“Is the world going to catch up eventually?”

 

Hannibal smiles genuinely at the question. The fine lines on his face distend immediately, and Will sees the good doctor of Baltimore once again for a second, powerful and dangerous and mortally curious. It's a flicker of the light that then gives him back the man he is now. 

 

“Only if we want it to, Will. Only if we want it to.”

 

\---

 

As soon as they leave the airport area, cars start to drastically diminish, until there is no one left on the road but them, driving in silence as the night ends and lights start appearing on the horizon. The fields around them are never ending, and Will loses himself as he stares at them so he won't have to look at Hannibal.

 

At times, he falls in short bouts of agitated sleep. He doesn't dream, but even just slipping into unconsciousness for a few moments leaves him with a strangely ill feeling that clings to his skin and makes him nauseous. So Will opens his eyes once again, focuses on the rolling on the car and on the soft music Hannibal is playing.

 

There's a peculiar stillness around them, the proverbial calm before the storm. He wonders what will happen once they'll reach their new home, if the progresses they started making in London will continue or be once again strangled under the heavy weight of their still unsolved conflict.

 

They drive through several sleeping villages as they get close and closer to the sea and their destination. Will imagines their life in one of those little houses with their white fences, their neatly taken care of gardens and that feeling of normalcy that he always looked for in everything, but could never grasp.

 

Somehow, the sight is soothing. Maybe because they disappear so fast he can pretend they're nothing but a dream that he'll eventually wake up from. Hannibal sighs deeply, prompting Will to turn to face him. He looks carved in stone, pale sunlight mixed with shadows giving his face a ghostly appearance. Will has to suppress the urge to touch him to make sure he's real.

 

“Are you sure you don't want me to drive for a while?”

 

Hannibal shakes his head.

 

“There is no need for you to drive, I am quite fine, don't worry. You, on the other hand, should rest, Will. Or at least try to.”

 

“You look pretty hammered yourself.”

 

The man's lips curve into the attempt of a lazy smile, one that doesn't turn out as good as intended, most likely. Hannibal told him many times about his desperate desire to grab Will, peel his skin off and be able to read his secrets. Now he understands it perfectly as his palms ache with the need to understand him.

 

“We will stop soon to refuel. Maybe you can drive a few miles after that.”

 

There is something detached in his voice, absent and far away as if his whole body is too busy focusing on something Will can't see just yet and that occupies his entire mind. He wonders if he should worry. Then he decides that he is too tired to do that or to care—instead he wraps himself in his blanket, pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window. Surprisingly, he falls asleep.

 

Will never had trouble sleeping in Hannibal's presence. That reckless part of him always got a wonderful kick of thrill from the idea of being unconscious with the most dangerous man he'd ever met right there next to him, ready to tear him apart. Maybe because he always knew Hannibal would never do that.

 

And their last few months together gave that image a new perspective. Will is starting to shed his illusion of Hannibal being an all-powerful dark being, a demon who only pretends to be human, and saw him at his most helpless and vulnerable. He's a man just like me, Will thinks absently as the car gentle movements lull him. He bleeds and cries and hurts, and he too finds a moment of peace in sleep.

 

Abel Gideon was wrong in the end. Hannibal might be a monster, but he's not the devil. And Will knows he's a monster too. So there is nothing there to fear for him. Sleep washes over him, taking him under, and there are no dreams waiting for him.

 

He could've slept all the way to Octeville sur Mer if it hadn't been for Hannibal shaking him awake around five in the morning, their car parked in front of a gas station that is starting to slowly come alive as the sun pokes its way through mist and clouds. Will shivers in the cold morning, wrapping himself tighter in his jacket. Hannibal's hand is still on his shoulder.

 

“I need to refuel. You should go inside and maybe get us both a coffee and something to eat, if you think anything is remotely edible at all, which personally I am inclined to doubt. But I will leave the judgment to you.”

 

Will stares at him with no expression for a very long moment, still frozen in between dreams and wake while his body slowly readjusts to reality. Hannibal looks tired as fuck, with dark circles under his eyes and a battered look on his face. Yet he's smiling, he's making the same ironic jokes that have been his signature sense of humor since they met.

 

He's both a completely different person that Will has no idea how to interact with anymore and the same old bastard that he spent years trying to hate and blame for his life falling apart. They're right in the middle of their discovery of each other, Will realizes absently as he kicks himself out of that torpor that still clung to his bones.

 

“Are you sure you trust me not to poison you?”

 

Hannibal laughs, filling the space with that sound.

 

“I shall be brave and endure whatever you will choose for me.”

 

The last few months have been so intense and so full of sometimes destructive emotions, that he treasures the quiet moment when they tentatively try to get closer to each other more than he ever thought he could. A year ago, he was with Molly and her son in his little cabin, trying to keep his perfectly crafted act as believable as he could, pushing forward and forward to wrap them more and more around himself.

 

He would stay awake in bed for hours, watching Molly sleep, but incapable of making any move to touch her, to actually unveil his true inner life to her. He spent so much time building his facade that he forgot to make his marriage real, to get to know who his wife really was as a person and not just as a precious, but useless token of normalcy ready for him to use.

 

No matter how long and hard he thinks about it, he can't remember her favorite food or color, her son's favorite videogame or subject at school. Those details didn't matter, they were not part of his fantasy that needed him to be at the center of their world and their lives completely devoted to be useful to him—so he never bothered asking.

 

Will sometimes wonders if he and Molly ever had a real chance to be happy together, if he was ever honest in his feelings towards her. He knows at some level he loved her, but he destroyed everything almost intentionally and that doomed them from the start.

 

The cold morning air wakes him up completely and Will takes a moment to breathe in deeply, his eyes staring into the rose tinted sky above him. There's still an hour or more to go before they arrive home, but he's already sure he can smell the sea in his nostrils, and the world around him feels a little more welcoming than it ever was since their fall.

 

The owner of that gas station, sitting in his little boot behind the cash registers watches him carefully with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. It's not holiday season yet and Will probably has 'foreign' written all over himself, so he ends up standing out despite himself. He attempts a weak smile, before giving up and wandering aimlessly through the aisle of the shop.

 

He feels out of place, like he used to in his classroom with the hungry eyes of all his students pointed at him, ready to pick him apart.

 

Hannibal's touch suddenly comes back to him. They have been moving back and forth in their intimacy, and Will feels so ambivalent about it he just can't make up his mind about what he truly wants. There are moments when the past weighs on him so heavily he can't help the bout of disgust and resentment that still fills him when he looks at Hannibal, and the idea of his hands on his skin is absolutely repulsive.

 

But they have been less and less frequent lately. Now Will mostly wants to wake up in bed next to him, half wrapped in his embrace, and there's a resignation in him about that contact that is slowly turning into acceptance. 

 

Will remembers the kisses they shared back in the cabin, the hopeful look in Hannibal's eyes after it happened, but that is something he's still trying to analyze, and his feelings keep confuse him. It's going to take time to go through everything that is hammering inside his head, even now that he has all the time in the world to do just that.

 

It felt like the only right thing to do at that time, that genuine and sudden gesture of trying to pull each other together, of holding desperately to one another to try to stay alive. And it was a good kiss, both devastating and wonderful in a complete and overwhelming way. Will wanted to soak up that feeling, keep it inside himself to revive it over and over to convince himself he's doing the right thing, that this is what he wants.

 

But then it disappeared, too quickly, and he's not sure if it'll ever come back.

 

Hannibal joins him as he's paying for their coffee and the two less ominous pastries he could find in there. The man barely spares them a glance, making him smile for no real reason. They settle on a table by the dirty window of the little dining room, as two truck drivers enter the shop and go to speak in quick French with the owner. They both ignore them. The man behind the register, on the other end, rarely takes his eyes off of them.

 

Will shrugs and eat his pastry in silence.

 

Hannibal is completely ignoring his food, looking outside at the cars that rush on the highway, their lights reflecting in his blood-colored eyes. Despite all his conflicting feelings about intimacy with him, Will knows he could trace the lines of all his scars even through his clothes by now, that Hannibal could do the same. It's their souls that still escape their grasp. He wonders if this new chapter of their life together will change that.

 

“It feels odd to me that you would buy a house in a place like this.”

 

“And why is that, Will?”

 

There's an amused smile on his face, a good sign he might actually get some answers for a change.

 

“I don't know. You crave attention usually, you can't abide being far away from the center of the action. You need to shine, to make an impression, to make people remember you. This is so... remote for you. It just doesn't feel right to me.”

 

The man's smile widens.

 

“I actually inherited the house from my aunt when she moved away and returned to Japan after my uncle's death. I decided to switch the ownership of it to one of my aliases to make sure it remained in my possession if I were ever forced to be on the run. So I guess in a sense you are right, Will. The house was not originally mine, that is why it is so... far from the action. It used to be a summer home.”

 

That actually surprises him, leaving him speechless for a moment, before he manages to scramble up something to say.

 

“I had no idea your aunt was still alive...”

 

Hannibal's smiles falters for a moment, a sad veil covering his eyes.

 

“We are no longer in touch. It had been a long time since I last saw her.”

 

Will nods awkwardly. He knows next nothing of Hannibal's family, other than what he managed to find out about Mischa. He has no idea what to do with all the information that he suddenly received.

 

“When was the last time you came here to the house?”

 

Hannibal sighs and takes a long time to reply, like his mind is going back to the last time he saw that house and walked through those rooms. Will hasn't even seen it yet, and he can already feel the emotional baggage that it represents for him. 

 

“About fifteen years ago, I believe. Before I moved permanently to America. So I am fairly sure no one is going to remember me and that our new identities will be safe for the time we'll be there, in case that is what you were worrying about.”

 

Will shakes his head, abandoning himself against the chair.

 

“Thanks for clearing that up, but that's not what I was thinking about. It's just... you never really told me anything about your family, other than mentioning your sister. Ever. So it took me a moment to properly absorb the new information.”

 

His voice comes out a lot blunter than he intended it to, yet Hannibal looks unfazed as he usually does every time Will throws sudden bouts of sarcasm and subtle vitriol at him. He has this gift of letting almost everything wash over him without ever disturbing his perfect calm, and he wishes he could learn that.

 

The man takes a deep breath, poking at the food in his plate with his fork, but still refusing to eat it. Will tries to meet his eyes, but he carefully avoids his gaze.

 

“You never shared many details about your own family either, Will. Lately I have come to the realization that we know next to nothing about each other's pasts. Maybe right from our first meeting we could already connect so deeply that we never felt the need, or maybe we were trying to protect all our sore spots for unwanted scrutiny. Who knows at this point, things have changed so much it's hard to know where we stand now. But if you ever want to know anything about me, Will, all you have to do is ask.”

 

“And will your answers be honest? Whatever I ask you?”

 

Hannibal's eyes shift suddenly, piercing through him like he's made of nothing but thin and transparent rice paper, and Will can feel his gaze twist and move inside of him like a knife drawing blood. The truth is, he never asked because he was afraid. To know is to understand, that's why he got so close to his killers, to the Hobbs and Dolarhyde that littered his life, following him around like they could only be truly alive inside his mind.

 

With Hannibal, he was almost afraid of knowing and understanding too much, of seeing him as a real human being with a past, with a family. Yet now it's the only choice he has. He has no one else after all.

 

And that curiosity he tried to quiet for so many years now is back, poking intensely at his brain.

 

“There is no reason for me to lie to you anymore.”

 

Will nods, inhaling deeply. He watches Hannibal finally take a bite of the still whole pastry in his plate and then makes a displeased face that makes him laugh out loud, feeling an odd sense of camaraderie in that one simple gesture. 

 

“I remember telling you to find something edible.”

 

“Come on, it's not so bad!”

 

Hannibal prefers not to comment more about the quality of the food, especially since the owner is staring at them again.

 

“I shall make us a better breakfast once we get home.”

 

Will sighs, crossing his arms on the table and the putting his head on them, but without taking his eyes off of him. Hannibal looks at him with that weird mixture of tenderness and curiosity that he came to know so well, and that always sends a long shiver down his spine.

 

“Do you think it's going to be weird for you to be back there after so many years?”

 

Hannibal simply smiles.

 

“I don't know, Will. I guess we will find out together.”

 

\-----

 

Will falls in love with the house as soon as he sees it. Maybe it's because of the way it sits slightly perched on a small hill that descends into the sea below, or how the greyish morning light illuminates the scene in front of them. Either way, it radiates a sense of calm stillness that overwhelms him. He takes a deep breath and the salty air fills his lungs, almost cleansing them, making him feel awake and refreshed.

 

Hannibal stares at him with a smile on his face, probably reading his subtle excitement from his expression. Will decides to say nothing, and the other man doesn't either, so they both can remain suspended in that unreal silence wrapped all around them.

 

The landscape that spreads in the distance looks like it has been exactly the same for centuries, and that not even their presence there could ever be more than a speck of dust, there one second and gone the next. And it's comforting, to know that at this point he can leave behind the weight of responsibilities he never asked for and become truly somebody else in a place where no one cares to know who he is or his past.

 

Both the interior and the exterior of the house are so unlike anything Hannibal would ever choose for himself. There's none of that almost forced opulence, of that shocking abundance. The rooms are simple and frugal, almost bare. 

 

It has the countryside feeling of light meals, long days spent outdoors and nights with the windows open to let the scent of the sea come in and fill all the rooms. Will closes his eyes and can see it all happening right before him, as if the people who used to move through the house have now returned, bringing life back to it.

 

But of course, those images dissolve as soon as he comes back to reality. He'll have time to dig deeper into the emotions and memories those rooms hold, when he'll be well rested and calm. For now, he decides to explore everything without stopping to think too much.

 

So his first impression will be genuine.

 

He helps Hannibal unload their few belongings, watching him as he sets foot in that place after so many years, studying his reactions.

 

The man stops on the threshold for what feels like the longest time, his eyes scanning the room that extends in front of him, memories coming back to him and filling him up all over again. There is no expression on his face, but Will senses the tension in his body and can imagine the muscles clenching under the fabric. He has no idea if he should say something, if anything could help at all. So he stays quiet.

 

Hannibal lets out a very long sigh, closing his eyes and only then finally taking a step forward. Will relates to that far too much, in a way he never thought he could with Hannibal. Regrets and fear are something that belonged to him alone, that he never saw in him before, and this throws him off his balance once again.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

The man smiles to him.

 

“Yes, don't worry. I was just taken aback for a moment by how little this house has changed over the years. It seems to me that only I have become older, while all the rest stayed the same. A peculiar feeling.”

 

Will finds nothing to say to that, because for him all this is nothing like what his life used to be and it's hard to put the pieces all together to get the full picture. So while the man makes breakfast, he goes outside.

 

Octeville is small. From the back of the house, thanks to their privileged position, he can see it all, watching it as it awakes and starts the day. 

 

In front of them, the English Channel spreads out towards England, as the waves come crashing on the cliffs below them. Will feels the wind gently caressing his face, as its cold fingers slip inside his clothes and make him shiver. There is so much silence there, almost deafening in its strength and he can't help closing his eyes for a moment. Even breathing sounds too loud to him right now, too intense and forced.

 

There is still no one in the streets, but Will can already see pinnacles of smoke rising from the chimneys. The air around him is crystalline and cold, his breath coming out in white puffs as he tries to be as quiet as possible and starts walking down the path that will take him to the beach he can see from the top of the hill.

 

He meets no one, but the scent of the sea grows stronger and stronger, and so does the shattering of the waves. The sky is covered by a thick layer of grey clouds, but some sunlight shines through anyway. 

 

Will once again has the impression that time stopped in that village, that all its citizens are under a spell that froze them in the little houses, forcing them to live in a bubble where nothing ever happens and no one can change the endless repetition of their routine. And he and Hannibal don't belong there.

 

They bring their destruction and darkness with them, breaking and tearing apart the perfect calm that reigns there. The truth is, they will never belong anywhere unless they manage to erase who they once were, and deep down he knows it's impossible. All they'll ever do is pretend to be different, to change. But they're monsters and that's all they'll ever be forever.

 

He stares into the dark water as it washes on his shoes, the sand hard and damp under his feet and the very air around him so heavy and still Will can feel it physically weighing on his shoulders. 

 

Maybe Hannibal is looking down on him right now, watching him as he drinks in the sight of their new living space for the first time, wondering what is moving inside his mind, what he's feeling. The thing is, Will has no idea. He wants to move on, to make the most of the situation he's in, but it's hard to collect all his thoughts and put them in the right order.

 

He puts his fingers into the icy sea water, feeling it splashing on his skin and it seems to finally wake him up a little. Will brings them to his mouth and vaguely thinks that the sea tastes the same everywhere. In that quiet corner of apparent peace and in the roaring Atlantic that nearly swallowed him and Hannibal. Thinking of his and Hannibal’s death used to be a comfort for him. 

 

If he could not lock evil away and get rid of it, maybe he could still kill it. But the thought doesn't comfort him anymore. Now the fall looks like the distant and fevered dream of a madman that saw no way out, that was trapped in his own mind and couldn't see any other way to survive.

 

But maybe this is it. He can live, he can learn how to shape his devil to be able to live with him. He's giving himself the chance he denied to his marriage with Molly. There is a tragedy in realizing how many chances he gave Hannibal despite everything he has done to him versus those he gave to all the other people in his life, how he knew far too well that he would never be able to stop himself from doing that.

 

He would just keep sacrificing all he ever held dear in his life on the altar of Hannibal's twisted love.

 

That's why they both had to die.

 

Will remembers how he felt after the fall, as water engulfed him and the pressure pulled him under. He kept his eyes closed, trying to abandon himself to the inevitable death, to allow it to visit him and Hannibal both sooner. He could still feel Hannibal’s weight next to his, and thought that dying together would be the only possible final act of their twisted relationship.

 

Maybe it was right then, when water was starting to fill his lungs, that Will decided he didn't want to die. The salty taste of the sea reminds him of that decision, of when he pulled himself and Hannibal out of the water and onto the rocks.

 

He keeps that memory alive inside of him, so he won't forget that feeling.

 

To go back to the house, Will takes another, longer path that goes through the beach and that then takes him to the main road they used to reach it. His watch tells him he was out exploring for almost an hour and the cold is becoming too much even for him. He wonders what Hannibal is doing, how he feels as he waits for Will to return alone in a house that clearly holds so many memories for him, and that he's determined to uncover as soon as possible.

 

A lot must've happened there, secrets are lying inside the walls, under the floorboards and inside Hannibal's mind. Will takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands together to try to chase the cold away, his coat way too thin for this weather.

 

He hears a thunder rumbling in the distance, so he tries to walk faster over the grass of the sidewalk, his eyes still going from time to time to the sea.

 

And that is when he meets somebody from the nearby area for the first time. He turns a corner with his mind lost elsewhere, deep in his own thoughts, and when he finally looks up again, suddenly, Will finds an old man riding a truck parked on the side of the road, staring at him expressionless and unperturbed by his presence there. 

 

Will has spent the last few months purportedly avoiding other people, sometimes to the point of complete isolation, that now he has no idea how to interact with the man, if he should say something or just keep on walking, leaving him behind and running home, where, at least, he'd be safe. 

 

The man's eyes indulge on his face, on the scars that riddle it and the pressure of looking away starts mounting inside him, but that would only attract even more attention and suspicions, and he knows they can't afford that. So instead he tries to smile, rising his hand in an awkward hello gesture that receives no reply.

 

Despite the tension that is gripping his stomach, the habit of constantly observing the people around him gets the best of him, and he focuses on every little detail about the mysterious man that he can figure out. He's probably a farmer, his face darkened by years of exposure to the sun and the sea, his hands strong, callous and not completely clean even so early in the morning.

 

Maybe he's driving to the marker.

 

Somehow, he reminds Will of his father. He had tanned skin and rough fingers as well, and the rare moments of affection between them used to scratch at his skin and leave behind a lasting feeling of longing and regret. He never misses him, only saw him a few times after he moved away. 

 

Will didn't even invite him to his wedding or call him from the hospital to tell him what Hannibal had done to him and what he managed to survive. When Molly found out, months later, she was furious, complete disbelief clouding her eyes and maybe opening the first of the many cracks in their marriage.

 

She insisted Will called her father, that he invited him so they could meet him. Molly only wanted to see the normal, well-adjusted man that he could be. The good father for her son that was in him. She wasn’t prepared to see his cold side so soon. Will simply shrugged the matter off and pretended to forget about it. 

 

Will always told himself that he had time, that he could always fix the gaping hole that always was their relationship one day.

 

Now he realizes that he'll never get the chance, that is father will die thinking him dead, and Will can't really tell if this notion is affecting him or leaving him oddly numb.

 

That's when the man finally decides to break the stillness between them, maybe because he read on his face a sense of sudden defeat that made him want to leave this odd stranger to his thoughts and move on. The air is almost sticky, but cold at the same time, as thunders grows closer and Will can feel the first drops of rain hitting his skin.

 

The farmer acknowledges their meeting with a faint nod, before starting his truck. Will can't help keeping his eyes on it until the rain becomes heavier and the car disappears from his sight.

 

\-----

 

Hannibal is setting the table in the dining room when he arrives, the grey light outside doing little to keep the room well lit, despite the two huge windows. He looks freshly showered, wearing more comfortable and warm clothes and with one of those soft smiles that Will is beginning to grow familiar with opening up on face as soon as he sees him.

 

There's a fire going and a delicious scent in the air that makes his stomach twist and hurt in hunger.

 

Will is freezing in his slightly damp clothes, but smiles back anyway.

 

“I was actually about to come looking for you. You were gone a long time.”

 

“Sorry, I didn't realize it. I was... busy exploring the beach nearby, took a walk to clear my head.”

 

Hannibal nods, and Will can't help staring at the almost feline movement his whole body makes when he exhales deeply, as if he was holding his breath while waiting for his answer. How much can someone change just in the span of a few months? And can someone like Hannibal even truly change?

 

This is the same man that killed people he loved, that almost had his own family murdered, and yet Will can shake away the constant feeling that that person Hannibal used to be is now gone.

 

He changes his skin, like a snake. Will can only hope this new one will be less harmful.

 

“How did you find the village?”

 

Will shakes himself back to reality, taking off his coat and shrugging absently. Hannibal pretends not to stare at him, but he fails.

 

“Quiet and empty, except for an old farmer. But I liked it. It has an odd sense of peace to it that I missed feeling. Like it was suspended in time, away from everything that reminded me of all the mayhem we left behind. It reminds me of what Wolf Trap felt like for me before I met you.”

 

He knows his words cut deeper than what the blank expression of Hannibal's face lets transpire, but his voice was without malice or cruelty. It was just the best and fastest way to explain how he feels. Seeing that sleeping village below his feet, where nothing his eyes touched that screamed of blood, murder and nightmares, where he could breathe in and not see the ugly memories of their past come back to reclaim him.

 

Hannibal nods.

 

“I am glad your feelings are so different from the ones you had in London. I am confident our months here might be even enjoyable for you, if this positive emotion you are feeling does not change. You have already come such a long way, Will. And this is nothing but another part of the journey. You will pull through.”

 

He finds nothing to say to that that has not been said over and over again in these few months. He knows Hannibal is right. They have to go on. This is the only chance at a new life they'll ever get and wasting it would be stupid, senseless and useless.

 

There is no peace in death, only oblivion.

 

But he might be able to build something that, at least, will grant him small moments of happiness.

 

“I'll go change my clothes and take a shower. I'm freezing and I really need to get all the dirt of traveling off of me.”

 

“Of course. I took the liberty to put your bags in your room already, it's the second door on the left. Breakfast will be ready for you when you're done.”

 

They look at each other for a long moment, and Will wishes he could tell him any of the million, sometimes contradictory things that are swirling in his head. Maybe if he had the strength, he could tell Hannibal that no matter how big the part of him that still hates him is, another growing one is almost glad to be with him here, that at least it is better than to live a lie and be alone.

 

But Hannibal would seize on that small bite to finally have the chance of devouring him whole, and there is still too much mistrust between them.

 

So he just turns around and goes upstairs.

 

\-----

 

The room Hannibal chose for him is way larger than what he needs, but as soon as he sees the stunning view he can appreciate from its wide windows, he finds no reasons to complain. That part of the house is perched right above the sea, giving him the impression of being much closer to the water than he actually is, and he can hear the waves roaring loudly now, and rain splatters the glass.

 

It must be stunning to sit there and just admire the world from that privileged position when the weather is good and the sun is filling the room completely with its brightness. All the colors that now appear dull and muted would come alive then. But for now, he'll have to deal with that greyish light that forces him to squint to find the switcher to admire the room better.

 

There is a wide bed, a wardrobe, a desk and little else of importance in it. The place has very obviously been empty for a long time, and even though it's clean and clearly taken care of, it lack any kind of warmth. The bookshelves are poorly stocked, there are no photographs on the walls, only a few generic paintings. None of them seem to have been Hannibal's work.

 

Will decides he'll pay more attention to the house and its secrets tomorrow, when he'll open his eyes again to start peeling all the layers off of Hannibal that he wrapped himself into.

 

The shower comes as a relief to him, chasing away the cold and massaging his sore arm that still hurts when humidity rises no matter how long it has been since Dolarhyde stabbed him. Will tries to imagine a much younger, probably completely different Hannibal doing the same after a day spent on the beach, quickly washing away the sand before slipping into the huge bath tube that takes up much of the space in the room.

 

Maybe he was already a killer, maybe he was just considering murder as a way to set the scores with the God he was angry with for allowing Mischa to be killed. 

 

The air around him feels aseptic, but not in that disturbingly detached way that it had in London. Here, it feels clean, like a true fresh star that will leave all the ghosts that still to him with their ice cold tendrils, trying to drag him back into despair.

 

Maybe that propelling emotion that is filling him right now will go away in time, and he'll slip back into the darkness that plagued him so far. With him, there is always that possibility hiding right behind the corner, because he's a fragile machine that now has no roots anymore and that has to start building up new foundations all by himself.

 

Will sighs deeply, closing the water and knowing that Hannibal is waiting for him downstairs, with all that that will bring. At least, he thinks, it'll knock those thoughts out of his head.

 

Looking at the bathroom now, with his towel still on the floor, the condense clouding the mirrors and the window and the shower still dripping fat water drops, Will has the impression that some of that aseptic feeling is already gone, replaced by a natural comfort of being in a house he might eventually even call home.

 

He smiles to the scarred man he sees in the mirror, watching how his face changes with that simple gesture, and then goes to finally have his breakfast.

 

\-----

 

Hannibal prepares a breakfast relatively small if compared to the lavish ones he used to have back in Baltimore or even to the ones they shared in London. Somehow, Will appreciates this effort a lot more, because he can tell there's a genuine quality to it that lacked in other occasions.

 

It makes him truly enjoy every dish without being overwhelmed by too many flavors at once.

 

As soon as he brings the first bite to his lips, he realizes the awful taste the pastry they had on the road left in his mouth and just how famished he is. He sees Hannibal smile at the sight of him clearly appreciating the food, but the man says nothing, just continues to sip on his coffee.

 

They eat in silence as the storm rages around them, thunder making the windows shake and bolts of lightning illuminating the half dark room with their crude light. Will is mesmerized by how the trees bend under the pressure of the wind, by the rain that hits their house like it wants to bring it down. The savage strength of nature reminds him of Hannibal. Kind and deadly at the same time, always ready to turn on you and attack you when you least expect it.

 

Will sighs, a headache building behind his eyes, making all the bones under his skin ache. If he were in a different mood or if the storm outside didn't affect him so much, he'd try to scan the room for new clues, he'd focus on how Hannibal looks in it, how he's handling his own return to the ghosts of his past.

 

“How is the food?”

 

Hannibal interrupts his train of thoughts suddenly, almost startling him. He takes a deep breath.

 

“It's really good, as always.”

 

Then there's a pause, where he leaves the words hanging from his mouth, unsure how to voice how he feels without revealing too much.

 

“Sometimes I realize how much I enjoy what you cook for me only after I taste shitty food. Despite everything, our meals together never disappointed on that side, I could enjoy them even after I knew what, or who, I had been eating since we first met. I don't know what that says about me, to be honest.”

 

Hannibal laughs, more to himself than with him, not even turning to face him. A stillness appears on his features right after that nervous reaction, like a veil has been placed on his face, blurring the lines and erasing every trace of emotion from it. The lightning reflects in his brown eyes, and Will wonders where Hannibal’s mind suddenly took him.

 

Will's words hover between them, a remainder of their past that neither of them really wanted to face right now. The man sighs deeply, like that simple gesture costs him an immense amount of energy. They're both so tired of the constant battles they're fighting with their ghosts within themselves and with each other, but it's even harder to keep it all bottled down.

 

“I am glad to hear there is still something from our years long relationship that you can still remember fondly. I want to hope it is not the only one, however.”

 

Of course he says nothing, but Hannibal was not expecting him to.

 

“As for the meal, a cook is always pleased to know his food is appreciated. I had to make do with what little was available at the moment, but in the next few days we should go to town and replenish our pantry.”

 

“You can still make more out practically nothing than I could out of months’ worth of groceries. Stop apologizing.”

 

Will rolls his eyes at the ironic grin that appears on his face, but lets it slide without commenting. Sometimes it can be so easy for them to tune into one another and restore some of their old harmony. They can be perfectly in synch, they can even make jokes and ignore for a moment the wall that still stands tall between them.

 

“So what your plans are now that we're here? Other than buying food I mean. Do you still have proprieties to sell?”

 

Hannibal nods vaguely, cleaning his mouth and crossing his legs with his warm cup of coffee resting carefully in his hands. He can be so graceful, so gentle. Yet so lethal a moment later.

 

“I do, and of course I will get to that eventually, but for now there are other matters I need to attend to. After my uncle died, my aunt decided to sell her Parisian house and move permanently here, with the majority of what she intended to keep, including letters, pictures, some valuable artifacts. She was comfortable, the apartment sold well and I visited her often while I was studying medicine at the university in Paris. For a few years, our life was encapsulated in a perfect routine that I thought would never end.”

 

Seeing him like this, finally unveiling small glimpses of his past, is oddly comforting for him. Will still has to surf through omissions, sugarcoating and the usual ambiguities of his words that make him doubt everything Hannibal says, but he can feel that the majority of it is genuine.

 

There is a softness and a nostalgic longing in his voice every time he mentions his aunt, and it makes Will wonder how close they were, what kind of relationship they really had. Maybe he'll ask one day.

 

“And then what happened?”

 

“What always happens. Things changed. We changed, in way that made it impossible for us to share a roof. So Murasaki decided to go back to Japan; she left suddenly, only bringing her most treasured possessions with her, leaving the rest behind here in this house. Where they still are to this day. I think it is finally time for me to confront that legacy and send it back to her to her new home. I am sure she'll appreciate it.”

 

Will wonders if Hannibal would answer him if he asked him to tell him the truth, to tell him exactly what forced the last person of his life he could call family to leave him forever. Something in the way Hannibal's eyes shine in the grey light around them tells him there is a chance he would. But instead of pushing forward, he asks something completely different, once again stunned and held back by his own doubts.

 

He almost laughs out loud when he thinks that, if he and Hannibal still had their sessions, he could bring up the problem to him, and maybe he could tell him what to do about that growing sense of uncertainty he feels. 

 

“Are you sure that's wise? Aren't you afraid that could arouse suspicions?”

 

Hannibal's perfect expressionless face finally cracks a subtle smile that rises the corners of his lips and gives him an appearance of life and presence once again.

 

“I understand why you might be afraid of that, Will, but the risk is minimum. Even in the case someone or the authorities were still looking for us, I highly doubt they would be able to trace her to where she is now and link her to me. Plus, Chiyoh will take care of everything, and no one knows who she is. Trust me. I would never risk this freedom that cost us so much.”

 

Will can't do anything but nod, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The mention of Chiyoh brings him back to their time in the cabin. There are times where that feeling of helplessness and loneliness overcomes him again, stunting his recovery and throwing him back into that same crippling depression that nearly made him give up on life.

 

He used to dream of Molly all the time. he could still picture her face, her voice, the sound of her laugh and the delicate warmth of her hands so perfectly that in his fevered dreams he believed she was there with him.

 

Not out of love. Just because he needed her there, and what he needed always had to have precedence.

 

Now he realizes that half of his memories of her appear opaque and far away to him, slowly fading. Now Hannibal is there instead. Hannibal, who pulled him out of the dark water that was killing him.

 

The same man that destroyed his life over and over, that killed his marriage before it even started, is the one that saved him now. 

 

“Do you think somebody is still looking for us?”

 

From the way he sighs and crosses his hands on his stomach, only stealing a quick glance at him, Will can tell Hannibal anticipated the question.

 

Yet he's still silent for a few, long minutes, with Will left hanging on his chair as he waits for him to say something.

 

“It is possible, of course. But somehow I doubt it. I think the majority of the people we knew would prefer to believe in our death than keep looking for us, constantly reminding themselves of our possible presence in this world. Many of them would want to move on.”

 

“But not all of them. not everybody is capable of letting go so easily to something that haunted them for so long.”

 

Hannibal smiles softly, suddenly once again interested in the conversation. He had the exact same look in his eyes during their sessions, that famished, almost rabid expression that spoke of an insatiable hunger, of the deep need he felt to sink his teeth into Will and open him up to find out exactly how he worked. Will didn't see it for what it was at first. but he does now.

 

And behind that, hidden in the corner of his eye, there's that desire to understand him that Hannibal thinks will bind them together forever.

 

“Like whom, Will?”

 

“Jack, for example.”

 

The man laughs, a sarcastic grin appearing suddenly on his face.

 

“In Florence, he told me that my death would make him feel alive, that it would free him of the burden that weighed over his shoulders for all these years. I do wonder if that is true. Is he free now that in our old world we are dead? Or does he still feel me lingering at the edges of his life, like a ghost he can't chase away? And is he plagued by the guilt he feels for causing your death too?”

 

Will lowers his eyes, massaging his temples.

 

“I think Jack understood my obsession with you better than anyone. He knew neither of us could ever be free of you. He'll never stop believing we might be still alive, he'll never lower his guard enough to fully accept it. Jack knew you're like a blood disease. Once you're inside, it's impossible to truly eradicate you. Even if he had killed you with his own hands in Florence, I think a part of him would still admit the possibility of your survival.”

 

All Hannibal does is nod and smile only enough to make it clear he agree. In a sense, Jack Crawford was the one to start all that happened between them. Since that day in his office, since their first meeting, Will had the feeling something changed so dramatically that he would never be able to go back to his old life, to his old self.

 

Hannibal slipped through the cracks of his armor like through the gash of a wound, and he festered there until he was everywhere. Even when he managed to leave, to try to start something new with Molly, he knew that nothing could keep them apart forever.

 

That was just the reality of things. Jack only helped speed their reunion.

 

Will wonders what would've happened if they had never met sometimes. It's desolating to realize that he barely can fathom a life without him. 

 

“After Bella's death, Jack had nothing left except his insatiable thirst for justice. His inability to let go and move is what ruined him. It is sad to see such a brilliant man wasting himself and his talents in such a useless way. What he will be now without the FBI, without you and even without me? Without the monsters he is so used to chase? Ah, we can only wonder.”

 

When he speaks like this, as if his words are coming straight from the heart, what always shocks Will is knowing that he is always sincere. He tried to kill Jack, took immense pleasure from humiliating, mocking and playing him for a fool. He set him up for constant failure, and yet his admiration for him is genuine.

 

He has no idea how can a person do it without breaking. Keeping all those different sides of him inside must be unbelievably exhausting even for a man like Hannibal.

 

“But I do believe all our other old friends will be able to recover and restart their lives in time.”

 

Will nods, looking away from him, stubbornly avoiding his eyes. He's not sure the people they used to know would like to be referred as old friends by Hannibal, yet he says nothing. There's no pointing in picking a fight now, no matter how pressing the need to do just that seems to be at times. 

 

He tries to picture all the people he knew in a lifetime that is starting to become so far away he can barely still remember all the details of it. A part of him hates them for the freedom they now have. One that he denied himself forever by choosing to live.

 

“Alana and Margot for sure. Not sure anyone at the FBI is going to miss me, sure as hell they won't miss you. We left in a mark in their lives, we took a lot away from them. Yet I think that mark is already fading and that soon we'll be just smoke, a passing thought they won't bother sparing too much attention to. Maybe Alana might feel guilty or worry you might come for her and her family... but that too will pass. We're dead. And dead people stop being scary after a while.”

 

“And what about your wife? Do you think she already moved on or is she still waiting for you?”

 

Something awful and bitter spreads in his mouth at that question, and Will has to force himself to swallow it down and take a deep breath to try to calm his racing heart. He anticipated the question, he knew that Hannibal would try to bring them on that subject, because it's the only one they left untouched so far.

 

Molly has been off limits so far, with the man carefully and respectfully keeping his distance while Will was trying to heal from his wounds. But now such a direct question makes it impossible for him to lie. No matter how much he doesn't want to.

 

“She won't wait for me, Molly's not that type of woman. She has her son to think about, and he'll always be first in her thoughts; no matter how much she's suffering, she'll find the strength to move on in that.”

 

He could stop there. Say nothing more and leave Hannibal hanging on the doubt that Will, on the other hand, might still be clinging to the hope that he and his wife might be reunited one day. That even if she forgets him, he won't.

 

But Hannibal would smell the lie in his words, in the tone of his voice, in the ugly sounds that will come out of his mouth. And he is tired of hiding behind shields that are as thin as rice paper, of repeating the same old excuses he kept telling himself during the Red Dragon chase, even then knowing they were not true.

 

“I... I think she'll be relieved, actually. Something was never quite right between us from the very start, and what happened just destroyed what little was still there. I think our marriage would've collapsed anyway eventually. There was a constant sense of doom and hopelessness that never went away, not even in our brightest and happiest moments.”

 

Will takes a deep breath and allows silence to fill the space between them once again, yet Hannibal says nothing. He keeps his eyes right on him, but can sense he's not finished yet, so doesn't break the unnatural calm that reigns in the room, waiting for him to be ready, to gather up all his words and finally let out what has been left so far unvoiced.

 

“The worst part of the truth is... I am relieved too.”

 

For what feels like ages, but in reality is probably just a few seconds, there is a complete stillness, so heavy that it almost makes it impossible for him to breathe.

 

“Why?”

 

Hannibal's voice sounds so far away, dulled by the thick atmosphere that surrounds them.   
It's a hushed whisper that mimics his own, as if they were both too frightened to speak out loud. Will's confession weighs over them, with all its consequences, like a poisonous cloud polluting the air around them.

 

Will shrugs in the end, still reluctant to meet his eyes, but forcing himself to do that so he can see Hannibal's true reaction and catch every shade of it before the man can rearrange his face and restore his composure. Right now, he looks like a perfect mask of both sympathetic compassion and rabid curiosity. 

 

“Because now I don't have to lie anymore, I don't have to keep playing a part, wearing a costume that grows more and more tight and suffocating every day. Molly wanted a well-adjusted, happy and honest man she could raise her son with, wanted a confidant and a friend she could trust, a lover who adored her and... I couldn't be that, I could only pretend. Maybe I did love her, and maybe that feeling was genuine, but all the rest wasn't.”

 

In a low voice, he tells Hannibal how he deliberately denied himself that one last chance at happiness. He knew his marriage would end, because he had already decided that from the start. Will knew he couldn't stay away from that same life that destroyed him once forever, that he would go back to that, to Hannibal.

 

Because the simple truth is that he never wanted to truly leave it behind. 

 

He falls silent for a while, feeling shame and regret wash over him mixed with a sense of relief for finally letting it all out that makes him feel oddly guilty, like he should keep suffering to atone. 

 

Hannibal is quiet too, hands flat on the table, his eyes piercing through him and a weird stillness coming from him that really does make him look like a statue. Will would give everything to know what is moving on his mind right now, what he's thinking about and how he's processing his words. He allows nothing to sip through that veil of hardness and composure, and Will feels so alone, all by himself with his ghosts and the shadows of his mistakes.

 

“At least I'm glad I spared Molly my return and the inevitable fallout that would've caused. She deserved to be loved completely by a good man devoted only to her. That could never be me. Death is definitive. It's easier to move on from that, and she's strong enough to do it.”

 

“Do you regret not even giving your marriage one last chance? Maybe if you had let the Dragon kill me, in time you would've lived a new and better life with her, forgetting me eventually, leaving me and my darkness behind.”

 

Will smiles sadly.

 

“Yeah, maybe. But the truth is that I can only truly be myself when I am with you. The man Molly married was not me, not completely, and that lie would've collapsed on itself one day. I hate it, I fucking hate how much control and influence you still have on me, how deeply you've changed me, so much that I'd rather be with you, who ruined my life, but being honest to myself, than live every day wearing a mask.”

 

Hannibal nods very slowly, a silent acknowledgment of his words, of the raw and painful truth in them. He echoes the gesture, abandoning himself against the chair, drained all of a sudden of his energy. Will isn't sure his words were able to convey exactly what he feels, because sometimes they feel blotchy, useless and difficult for him, as if their true meaning disappeared from the world and all that is left behind is just meaningless sounds.

 

Nothing can truly express what he feels, the thunderstorm of emotions that rage inside of him, yet he couldn't keep it inside anymore. If he has to start living again, he has to let go of his pain as well.

 

“I can't even tell if what I'm saying makes any sense, or if I'm just trying to make up excuses for myself... the lines are so blurred sometimes and words are a wild maze that I can't make sense of anymore without getting lost. Everything I say sounds empty, and yet I have so much still trapped inside me. I don't know how to get it all out.”

 

Hannibal shakes his head.

 

“It makes perfect sense to me, Will.”

 

Will looks at him and sees his own pain, regret and self-hate reflected on his face, like Hannibal decided to become a mirror of his soul, a sponge ready to absorb all the darkest parts of him to cleanse him of them.

 

He can barely process it when the man, at such a slow pace that there is a moment where his doubts his own perception of the events, gently takes his hand into his own and then squeezes it, in a clumsy attempt at comfort and closeness that leaves Will speechless. 

 

His hands are cold, but they warm up so quickly against his skin, giving him the impression that what they're sharing, that this perfect moment of calm no one can ruin is sinking deep into him.

 

Will sighs, squeezing back. He can't help it, really.

 

Something in the way Hannibal looks defeated, tired and so unlike his older self seems to makes him forget everything, washing clean all their past and leaving only this feeling of skin against skin, of two very lonely people exposing their bleeding hearts and praying, begging on their knees, not to be hurt again. It overcomes the usual mixture of seduction and repulsion, of understanding and rejection that Will usually feels towards him.

 

It leaves him unsure about what exactly does he feel now.

 

“I am sorry, Will, for doing this to you.”

 

Hannibal is not even looking at him, yet it feels like he is, like his eyes are burning right through his heart, setting it ablaze. Will would've never believe him before, even now he doesn't completely, but in those few soft spoken words, he sees much more honesty in Hannibal than he has in years.

 

It's hard to hear them, to accept that even someone like him could feel and suffer like a human being. Yet in the end, he smiles.

 

“I know you're not completely sorry. You told me you don't regret what you did, and I don't need nor want your pity. And don't flatter yourself. I was fucked up way before I met you, you didn't do anything to me that hadn't been done already. My loneliness and isolation were already there, you didn't create them.”

 

Hannibal smiles back, slightly relaxing once again, still holding his hand.

 

“You are right. What I may or may not regret doesn't change the fact that I am happy it brought you to me. Still, I am sorry I caused you pain: once, that would've been such a thrilling and exciting prospect, the possibility of seeing you react to such strong emotions. Look how much things have changed...”

 

Will nods. Nobody ever made him feel so wanted, so desperately desired and accepted as Hannibal does; and nobody ever made him feel so lost, so wounded and betrayed. It's scary, because there's a possessive and obsessive streak into that feeling that he cannot control: Hannibal is a savage force, one he still can't understand.

 

He closes his eyes, inhales and exhales slowly a few times. The thundering has stopped now, even though it's still raining.

 

“Do you miss anyone or anything? Wish you had given them another chance instead of getting wrapped into this mess with me?”

 

“All I ever wanted from the very beginning was you, Will. I was ready to burn the whole world down to achieve that one single goal. I destroyed your life and mine just for the sake of having you. So, no, I do not. I have you in my life now, and that is all there is for me. Nothing else.”

 

Will and Hannibal look at each other like this is the first time they're laying eyes on the other. The unfamiliar feeling of a new beginning blows between them like the softest breeze.

 

Hannibal reaches out to run a hand through his hair, more daring now, feeling the need to have him even closer, to feel his skin against his own on a deeper and more intimate level. Will allows that too in perfect silence.

 

“I always pushed people away, my whole life. I never had any solid relationships, not even with my father. In the end, they all left.”

 

“I will not leave, Will. I will never leave.”

 

And Will knows that is true. He closes his eyes again, giving in to Hannibal's warmth, allowing it to surround him while the sea roars below them.


	7. the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I come back, I hope you'll all enjoy this chapter :*

Much to his surprise, the feeling of being surrounded by an unfamiliar and unwelcoming house passes so quickly that Will slips into a comforting routing after only a few days. There is a peculiar warm and cozy scent to it, to the pine wood that reminds him of something from his childhood buried too deep to come into focus, but strong enough to fill him with an odd sense of peace.

 

There are still moments where he wakes up and can't make sense of his surroundings, and when the memories come back. He can't help missing his old life, and that is probably going to follow him around for the rest of his life. But it is nothing like what he experienced in London.

 

Will rejected their apartment there, the ill and malevolent feeling it gave him. He even went as far as to leave most of the clothes they bought there behind with no regrets. This, at least, feels different in a positive way, and that is something he tries to hold on to.

 

He sees the same transformation in Hannibal as well, though in a way Will can't put into focus fully just yet. Maybe it's because Hannibal is back in a place that is familiar and fills him with long, lost, good memories. But there's a softness in his features too, a look that Will’s never saw before.

 

The two of them move together through the house quietly, as Will explores it to understand its secrets and Hannibal reassesses his place there. He doesn't mind the long evenings spent in silence, nor walking with Hannibal to the village.

 

He welcomes Hannibal's presence most of the time. Much like everything around Will, his feelings towards Hannibal are shifting as well, taking him to places he's still unsure about.

 

The first time they walk into town, Will feels all the eyes pointed right at him, scanning his scarred face, the locals quickly judging on their first impression whether they like him or not. They're mostly old people, used to living and dying in a place where nothing ever changes, where the future is still being kept away by their reluctance.

 

Hannibal doesn't seem to mind, but Will has the same icky feeling he always had during his school years, the feeling that followed him his whole life. Always the freak, the stranger, with malevolent eyes following him and that ugly impression of being out of place twisting his guts.

 

He closes his eyes and takes long and deep breaths, trying to focus on his list of groceries, on Hannibal's presence next to him. That usually, despite everything, comforts him a little, and helps him escape that loop of thoughts that slowly drags him down into an awfully blue mood he can't shake away.

 

Hannibal notices his discomfort, of course. Like a bloodhound, he can smell the distress on Will, and he can decide if he wants to relieve it or not, holding all the power in his hands.

 

“Are you alright, Will?”

 

Will laughs bitterly, shaking his head as he takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with more force than intended. The gesture leaves an aftershock of stars behind his closed lids.

 

“I'd be much better if I hadn't been just elected main character for the freak show of this town and if everybody would just stop staring at me.”

 

Hannibal looks around himself, to the other customers of the grocery shop, that conveniently lower their gaze right away, hastily resuming their business. Then he takes a very deep breath, like he's trying to get a taste of the feeling in the room.

 

“We are new to them, and my guess is that a town like this does not see much novelty during winter. I am sure their intent is not malicious and that, in time, they will accept us and that we will not look as interesting to them as we are now. Be patient, Will.”

 

Will feels such a sudden and strong bout of annoyance at those words that he has to bite down his lips to fight the need to lash out at him. Sometimes that old animosity comes back, even if Hannibal does apparently nothing to cause it. It's just the echo of how some of his words sound in his mouth, how they bring back ugly memories that Will is still fighting against.

 

He calms down after a minute, yet his voice is still not completely under control when he speaks again.

 

“I know that, you don't have to treat me like a child. And you have no idea what it feels like. Always being followed by those same scrutinizing gazes, always labeled as the stranger, the weird one. It gets exhausting, it becomes too much to handle. And after all I have been through, that and so much more shit lately, I think I am allowed to ask for some deserved peace.”

 

Hannibal, true to himself and to his fascination with his reactions, does nothing but smile. There is something so comforting in that, something Will isn't really sure how to explain.

 

The man feels present now, solid and real, instead of being far away from him.

 

“Oh, believe me Will, I know what you mean very well. I know what that gaze feels like, how deeply it can claw its way under your skin. Yet I also know what being ignored is like, feeling an invisible spec of nothingness. And that can be just as hurtful, trust me.”

 

Will smiles, this time in a relaxed way. That candid and honest revelation from Hannibal speaks a lot more about the truths he still hides than his own. It's a door that the man is opening inside his soul to allowing Will to peak into it, giving him something to focus on to distract his mind from the dark thoughts that inhabit it.

 

He feels the lines of his face soften as they walk to their car in silence, and once they're safely hidden inside of it, he can finally breathe easily again.

 

There is a long pause between them. Their relationship has always been so full of them, full of words that should've been said, of actions that shouldn't have been done and of what ifs that neither of them ever want to explore. Yet now silence is comforting.

 

Hannibal starts the car, but doesn't take them home just yet. He drives aimlessly as Will gathers his strength and his words. There's so much he'd like to ask, but can't quite choose the first question, the one that's going to decide the rest of their conversation. If he looks at Hannibal, Will can almost see the scars of old wounds emerging from under his skin, each one with a different past, a different revelation.

 

He has to pick the right one.

 

There is no rush, that's what radiates from Hannibal. The man is ready to give Will something, and he'll allow Will to take his time to find out what that is.

 

He takes another full, deep breath that spreads his chest, tunes in with Hannibal's feelings, so strong they are becoming almost physical to the touch. He fuels their connection, waiting to see what lies beyond the door Hannibal left ajar for him.

 

“It's hard to imagine a time when you didn't attract attention to be honest.”

 

“And yet such a time existed, although it is now nothing but a memory for me.”

 

“One that left a very deep mark, though.”

 

Silence falls again. Will looks outside, to the sea below them. Water splashes angrily on the rocks, white foam against the dark blue of the constant waves and for a second he's mesmerized by the sight. The sea looks like Hannibal: impenetrable and rough, but with that same comforting edge that makes a life with him at the same time more difficult, but more bearable than a life without. 

 

His voice is low when he speaks again.

 

“During my years in the orphanage, slowly my identity started to be stripped off of me. I no longer had a name, a face, a purpose. I was not a person anymore, but merely part of a bigger machine of repression and control that suffocated any sign of individuality. I spent all that time trying to desperately hold on to every memory, every trace of myself and of my past that I could find inside me. What I could not preserve, slipped away. Lost forever.”

 

There is a texture of absence in his words, a melancholic and almost dreamlike sound that ensnares Will into a new and deeper closeness with him that once he would've rejected right away, too afraid of being contaminated by it, of seeing in Hannibal the same, so familiar feelings that moved inside him. 

 

Now he craves it, and that connection, that strong bond that they're slowly forming, is the only thing that makes all this suffering worth it.

 

“Wasn't Mischa with you?”

 

Something twitches in the muscles on his cheeks, like a nerve under pressure, and for a second, Will wonders if he went too fast too soon. There are times when he regrets not asking more about Mischa when he had the chance. Maybe if he had, things would've been different in so many ways and leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

 

Hannibal smiles faintly in the end, as if hiding behind his usual barrier of affected courtesy and condescending words is going to somehow distract him from seeing what lies beneath that surface.

 

“Only at first; then I lost her, and with her disappeared the last link to my past. And then I truly became invisible, even to myself at times. It left a hunger in me, I suppose. A thirst for recognition and admiration that I could not satisfy in anyway. But sometimes I cannot help wondering if that state of complete facelessness wasn't actually a blessing in disguise. There is clarity in invisibility, there is safety in it. But I suppose I was never too big on those two, even as a young man.”

 

These moments, for Will, are like cracking open the thick surface of a frozen lake, unaware of what might be hiding in the darkness. There is always a strange kind of fear creeping into him, and yet sometimes, the horrors can leave room to discoveries that throw him new sides of Hannibal he never imagined could be there.

 

Maybe simply because he didn't want to see them.

 

He nods, relaxing against the seat and trying to imagine the man as a young boy, growing up slowly, but almost inevitably into a monster. Could something have stopped that from happening? He tried not to ask himself that question before, but now it resonates through him and he can't let go of it.

 

Their lives would've been so different. Maybe they would've never met. 

 

“I know what you're trying to do.”

 

The corner of Hannibal's mouth raises slightly.

 

“And what that might be?”

 

“You're occupying my mind with yourself, with your secrets. So everything else will be relegated to the background for now and eventually I might just forget about it completely, while I obsess over you and the new details of your old life you carefully feed me.”

 

The man smiles plainly now, gently parking by the side of an empty road. Their eyes meet, sending that thrill of closeness once again through Will’s body. Hannibal's face remains still in his satisfied grin, but there a mild benevolence in his gaze that erases whatever mocking feeling could be there.

 

Will used to refuse to see it. The devotion Hannibal could have for him clashed too much with his cruelty, and he was still trying to fight against his feelings, to forget they existed. He's the enemy, don't let him fool you. Don't fall prey to his poisonous love. 

 

But now Hannibal is all he has, it's hard to shake away old habits.

 

“And is it working?”

 

The both know the answer, yet it feels good to hear his own voice actually say the words for once, allowing the fog that usually hangs between them to dissipate.

 

“Yeah, it is.”

 

Hannibal inhales deeply, half in relief, half pleased with himself. Will remembers their last meeting at the hospital in Baltimore and can't quite reconcile the soft peace they've managed to create in just a few months with all the anger and strife that reigned before. Dying and coming to life changed them, shifted the very core of their relationship.

 

“It will get better in time. They will tire of staring, we will stop noticing it. And eventually we will move on and, one day, all of this will be only a distant memory.”

 

“Are the memories and the scars from your time in the orphanage only a memory for you now?”

 

Will weighs that silence, tastes it in the back of his mouth and when Hannibal finally moves again, a throaty laugh escaping his lips, it sounds so loud he almost recoils from him.

 

“If I can be honest, Will, and trust me I am, each and every one of your rejections hurt me a great deal more than every beating and every humiliation I ever had to endure in the orphanage. I still feel those burning my skin, yet I barely remember what being locked up in that hell felt like. So yes, I suppose it is only a distant memory now.”

 

His bowels clench in his belly at those words, both because of the casual tone in his voice and the way Hannibal looks at him like all the painful memories of their relationship are crashing back on him like the waves of the sea below them.

 

Every time Will rejected him, a new wound opened up inside Hannibal, tearing a new hole in the fabric of his being. It left Will capable of doing anything, unhinged and with every self-restraint he had left forgotten. Will used to think that hurting Hannibal made him happy, because Hannibal was a monster who had no right to sympathy.

 

Yet it all feels so empty now, an illusion he tried to keep alive even though it kept crumbling under the weight of his empathy and his feelings for the man that stayed alive despite all his attempts to erase them. Does he feel the same? Will is too scared to ask that, can't hear his admissions of regrets and remorse now that his scars are still fresh. 

 

“Is Mischa a distant memory as well?”

 

Hannibal sits very still for a moment, not even breathing, just staring with empty eyes at the world outside the car: his fist clenched, his body tense and ready to attack, a feline waiting in the shadows. Will feels the air around them cold and heavy on his shoulders, the silence this time is far too deep, almost suffocating.

 

Will saw the tomb in Lithuania, the little bloody hand print on the worn out stone, saw the glimpses of the dead girl lying in the frozen earth beneath his feet, the fireflies shining around him as if they too were mourning him. He never told Hannibal about any of it, he tried to distance himself from it all as much as he could.

 

A futile attempt to lock it away, to keep it under control.

 

Yet now it feels almost like if he looked outside, he could see Mischa there, still in her bloodied clothes and with death seared into her pupils. He can't shut that feeling out anymore, it creeps under his clothes, slipping under his skin.

 

The ghost feels dangerously alive now, like Abigail did in the cathedral in Palermo. That same eerie feeling comes back to him now, and maybe, together with Mischa, he'd see another dead girl standing in front of them.

 

The thought alone is capable of making him shiver. Hannibal must the same way, because he closes his eyes and lets out a long, shaky breath.

 

“No. I don't think she'll ever be only a memory. Some cuts were too deep and left even deeper wounds.”

 

Will doesn't know what else to do, so he just nods. There are boundaries still in place between them, that endured their fall and their rebirth, and this seems to be one of them.

 

“What happened to her?”

 

After that simple question, Hannibal seems to deflate right in front of him, almost losing some of his solidity. The lines of his body starts to look slightly blurred to his eyes, like he is letting go of a weight he never shared with anybody but him now, one that haunted him for all these years.

 

Will feels the need to touch him, to press his hand against his skin just to make sure he's still there, to hold him back before he disappears. When he looks inside and asks himself why he never asked about Mischa before, why he left the topic fester and take roots even more into Hannibal's soul, rotting it possibly beyond repair, the only answer he finds is that he did not want to know.

 

Giving a face, a motive, a story and a name to the genesis of the monster inside him, would've been too much like excusing what came after. It doesn't matter anymore now, their war is over, maybe it never truly started and all they ever did so far was hurting each other for no reason.

 

Hannibal inhales deeply and then releases his whole body in his next exhale. His eyes are clear, awake and aware again, the fog clouding him gone.

 

“A lot happened to her after our parents died, it changed her in ways I could not predict and that I was not able to fix. She was a willful, smart, but most of the times reckless child, and growing up alone, moving from orphanage to orphanage did nothing to smooth and soften the harsh corners of her personality. I think it only made it worse, actually. In time, even our bond began to suffer: I was not properly equipped to deal with her. We clashed constantly, when we used to be thick as thieves when she was younger. 

 

“I started to find her a nuisance. All I wanted was to survive in that hell with as little trouble as possible until I was 18 and could get us both away from there, but as time went on and her understanding diminished... so did mine, and it soured our relationship. Maybe beyond repair, but this I will never know.”

 

Will swallows awkwardly, feeling like a door was just opened on a very private scene that he was never meant to see, showing the humiliating and slow decaying of something that once was pristine and perfect. 

 

Despite the cold outside that is now slipping inside the car, he can feel sweat cooling at the nape of his neck, as his heartbeat slightly accelerates. 

 

“How old were you?”

 

“I was fourteen, she was ten. I used to be able to understand how she felt, her thoughts in a matter of seconds, just by looking at her. Our connection used to be so complete and strong. Yet somehow I knew I was losing it and her, that in time, our relationship might die, strangled by the evils of life. I just did not think it would happen in such a permanent way.”

 

Hannibal keeps his eyes on the dark clouds that are slowly advancing towards them, almost talking to himself as if he was still in the middle of his many monologues that he uses to try to justify himself, and not attempting to sell him whatever version of the truth he thinks Will might like best. 

 

A part of Will wants to escape desperately, to run out of the car so he won't have to listen to the rest of that tragic story that banalizes and at the same time adds a new layer of depth to the demons inside of him.

 

Rain starts dancing outside, like a wet blanket in the wind.

 

“One day, she came to me, insisting we had to go to a fair in one of the villages scattered around the orphanage. It was the insane idea of a human contact-deprived and lonely mind, or maybe a new rebellion to see what I would do. I loved her desperately, and she had a sweetness about her that made it impossible not to forgive her for everything. But back then, Mischa did not want to be forgiven. She wanted to push me over the edge and see what she could make me do, to see how I would react only to have a new reason to be angry.

 

“We argued, of course. It was all we did those days. And things were said that neither of us meant, that is what I always hoped at least, but that we never had a chance to take them back. She told me she was going to go no matter what, whether or not I decided to go with her. I replied that she could do whatever she liked, that I didn't care and that I would not come looking for her. A moment later, she was gone. The very last memory of my sister alive that I have, it's that of a young girl with hateful eyes pointed directly at me.”

 

Will realizes a little too late that he is not ready yet to hear the truth. He expected another fairy tale, one of the many that Hannibal has locked safely inside his mind, to be used at the right moment. Those are safe, sugarcoated lies that Will can happily swallow so he won't have to face what lies beneath the surface.

 

But this brutal honesty is nothing like that: in every word, he sees a dagger digging both inside of him and inside of Hannibal, it takes them both to a time when there were no forts, barricades or masks to hide behind. 

 

Hannibal's heart is so exposed he can feel its warmth on the tip of his fingers, almost burning them. Will closes his eyes and bites his lips, while the other man sits perfectly still, as if all his body could manage right now were his words, while the rest of him slowly shuts down.

 

It has been too long since the last time he slipped into his own mind, since he saw the pendulum swing from side to side behind his closed eyes. Yet it's so easy to slip back into it. It doesn't hurt any less, but it comes without his usual fear of getting lost.

 

“When did you realize she was missing?”

 

“Two days later. I refused to go visit her to the girl's dormitory, I did not look for her at communal breakfast. I ignored her absence, waiting for her to come back to me. Then one day one of the teachers came to me, told me she was gone. I am not quite sure if I already knew she was already dead back then. Perhaps I still hoped, or maybe that knowledge was already inside me, like a soft pulsating light that I still could not completely put into focus.

 

“I knew they were not going to do anything to try to find her. Kids ran away, disappeared or died all the time there, swallowed by a system that didn't care about them at all. So I went alone. It was winter, mountains of snow were lying around everywhere, and the cold... it's not possible to describe that kind of icily grip to someone who has never experienced it. It freezes your bones, your breath condenses inside your lungs and every part of your body aches, feeling almost brittle as it searches for any source of warmth it can find. Yet, my guilt propelled me forward.”

 

Hannibal's words die out for a moment, dulled by the falling of the heavy rain against the car windows. Somehow, it suddenly became much darker outside then it seemed to be a moment ago, and Will shivers in his jacket. The man takes a very long, very deep breathe in before he can continue, as if whatever there is still left to say is the most terrible part of the ordeal.

 

Will tries to brace himself, though he knows he'll be drowned anyway. He wonders if Hannibal ever rehearsed this very same speech in his head over and over since he was a boy. Maybe he did, but Will is sure it was never the honest truth, stripped of excuses and embellishments. Hannibal loves his stories and fairy tales, likes to hide behind smoke and mirrors to mask the ugly truth underneath.

 

Now it feels like the icy water of the Atlantic has washed away all that, leaving a mass of unspoken truths that no longer can be adulterated and hidden.

 

“I could not even see her at first, when I found her. She was a pale ghost in a white sea of snow and ice. And when I did see her... I did not comprehend what was in front of me fully. I could not reconcile the image of that half frozen corpse with my sister. It could not have been Mischa, she was not there, she was not dead. All I had to do was get up and go find her. To me there is an immense delay between that moment and the one where I finally allowed my brain to realize that she was there, gone and cold in front of me. No matter how hard I tried over the years, I have never been able to remember my thoughts during that time.”

 

“How did she die?”

 

There is a very faint shudder in him, as if focusing on that detail is possibly too much, even more than all the rest: it's so objective and so clinical he can't deny it, no matter how good he can adulterate and modify the rest in his mind.

 

“My best guess is that the man who killed her tried to rob her. She resisted, of course, but he was much stronger than her. So he overpowered her. At first he attempted to strangle her, and when that took too long, he crushed her head with a stone until she was finally dead. It was still there, the stone. And the snow beneath her body was blackened by the coagulated blood. I kept it. It was in my house in Baltimore, displayed in one of my cabinets, though you probably never noticed it. I assume it is still in police custody now, but who knows.”

 

That brings a smile to his lips. Somehow to remember that under his apparently new skin still lies the old sarcastic predator is oddly comforting. It doesn't take away from the heavy lines that run across his face or the way his eyes seems to avoid looking straight at him, as if right now they could not bear it, but it helps bringing them back to the present.

 

If he closes his eyes, though, Will can still see the pale little girl lying down on the bloody snow, with Hannibal leaning on her, touching her frozen face with shaking fingers.

 

“Don't you want to know what happened next?”

 

Will lets out a shaky breath that he didn't even know he had been holding while his mind was running wild through this new set of nightmares.

 

“Will it be the truth? Or will it be another fairytale?”

 

Hannibal is quiet for a moment.

 

“I am fairly certain neither of us needs those anymore. I do not, at least. It has been a long, long time since I confronted this ghost. If I turn back now and replace the truth with another lie... I don't think I could ever face it again. And I think you need to hear the whole story, if you really want to understand. As much as I need to relive it one more time before locking that door forever.”

 

Maybe this is the first time he can truly relate to Hannibal, that he allows himself to do that: Will bites his lip as he nods, closing his eyes.

 

“What happened next?”

 

In that simple confession he just heard, in the hushed and uncertain tone in Hannibal's voice he saw so much of himself, of his own fears and demons that it almost feels like he is confessing himself as well, unburdening his heart through his words.

 

“I could not leave her there, of course, to feed the animals of the forest and to rot under the snow. I had to take her with me. That was all I could think of as I tried to carry her back to the orphanage. But she was so heavy. When she was younger, I could carry her around and she would weight nothing in my arms. Now she was dragging me down with her in the snow, making my hands bleed in the effort of clinging on to her and not letting go. And the cold was inhumane. I managed to find an old and abandoned shack, to this day the details of that discovery are a blur to me. I dragged her body in there, locked it in the ice cellar, and then... I fell asleep or I passed out. Either way, I was unconscious for hours.”

 

A car suddenly passes them at high speed, making both of them shudder. Will can hear his heart pumping blood hard through his veins and the sun thundering in his ears. Hannibal, on the other hand, looks completely calm, collected and in control again, as if he's under a spell that takes away the harsh pain of his story.

 

Apparently at least.

 

“There was a fire burning in the fireplace when I woke up. I do not remember lighting it at all, but it must have been me, because there was no one else anywhere in sight. I was alone there. During the next few days, I lived off the few supplies I stole from the orphanage, trying to make them last as long as possible. I tried to recover, to think of a way to take Mischa back with me to give her a burial at least, but as I grew weaker, I spent most of the time keeping the fire alive and letting exhaustion getting the best of me.

 

“I didn't go see her body at all during that time, but... I could feel her. Sometimes, I was sure I could hear her whisper to me, that I could see her disappearing just out of the corner of my eye, and I would catch the sound of footsteps of light children feet muffled on the upper level. Which I knew was impossible. Yet, as food became scarce, the hallucinations became more real, more solid. And they were the only company I had. I started to talk... to her, to her ghost if you want. Maybe that is when the first severance between myself and reality happened.”

 

Will knows what it means and how it feels like to lose the threads of the real world, feeling everything become liquid and ephemeral, impossible to grasp and reach. If what should be safely anchored all around you starts to slip away, you try to find solace and relief anywhere.

 

Even in ghosts.

 

It's not hard for him to imagine a grief stricken and too-young and alone Hannibal slowly descending into some sort of madness. He knows that feeling far too well. How he avoids any mention of his feeling, to how he was dealing with his sister's death and instead retells the tale like a rehearsed script speaks volumes of the wounds that after so many decades seems to be still fresh and bloody under layers of new skin.

 

Some parts of him never healed.

 

“After food ran out, I could barely get out of the broken and disgusting bed I was waiting to die in. The blanket I had was so dirty and thick I almost preferred it off, it did nothing to protect me, and the house around me seemed to be rotting much faster, almost right in front of my eyes. As if my presence awakened something in it that disrupted the previous harmony that had survived until that moment. I was cold, I was hungry, but I was not alone. Mischa came to me every night, reminded me to keep the fire lit, warmed me up with her little evanescent body, whispered to me things that most of the times I could not even understand.”

 

Hannibal becomes quiet again for a moment. Will's eyes catch him, lost in thought, as if he's weighing his next words inside his mouth, trying to get a taste of them and of their impact before speaking them.

 

Will can feel every cell and fiber of himself stretching out almost to their limits, trying to make room inside of him for what is about to come. It feels like a part of him always imagined this moment would arrive one day and shine a far too-bright light of the most and best hidden secret he ever came across.

 

Hundreds of nights spent trying to guess what truly happened to a little girl that has been dead for more than thirty years, and yet it still seems to be a deadly present, a haunting whisper against his ear. And now the truth is what he is getting.

 

His fists close without him even noticing.

 

“And then one day, the Mischa inside my head put into words what I had already figured out was my only chance to survive. Something that I couldn't face by myself. My mind had to split in half to give me enough room to accept that. She told me to eat her body. She was dead already, could not feel any pain anymore. But I was alive, and I had to live. In the fragmented memories that I managed to recover from those days, all I remember of her were her eyes. They were like fiery pits, yet with a loving twist that made me love my ghost as much as I loved my sister when she was alive.

 

Eating her would mean allowing her to live on inside of me, so I would not lose her completely. At least this is what I believe I told myself during those nights. She was with me when I left the shack. In my blood, in my bones, in every molecule of my body. As I walked through dunes of white snow and ice, that thought kept me warm. She was not truly dead. Only alive in a different way. In life, I was losing her even before she was taken from me; in death, she became mine again.”

 

Will realizes that his mouth is dry only when he sighs deeply, closing his eyes almost in relief: beside him, Hannibal does the same. And for what felt like hours, all they do is sitting next to each other in complete silence, trying to adjust themselves to the new feelings spreading inside them.

 

“Did you eat her to take her with you forever or just to reclaim her?”

 

“I ate my sister's body because I did not want to die, and that seemed to be my only chance of survival. But I suppose that, unconsciously, I was combining both of those options in my act as well. I was not as lucid back then as you might think. All I wanted in that moment was to survive, all the attempts to rationalize my act came much later.”

 

All he can think about now are the magnificent meals Hannibal used to present to him, to his guests, all made with the remains of his victims. A tableau that would mimic the crime scene he would leave behind, another way to expose and torment the people he killed. Mischa was not his victim, and the act of consuming her had nothing to do with the sheer satisfaction that making everybody around him as guilty as he was gave him.

 

It's hard to reconcile that image with the hungry young boy of his past.

 

Will always thought that her death had done something to him. If he had killed her, then it would've been so easy to explain all the rest. Now there is a gap in his assumptions that he keeps banging his head on, hoping to make a dent in the wall that keeps them sealed away from him.

 

“But you didn't eat your victims to relive that experience, did you?”

 

Hannibal scoffs, looking at him like he can't believe Will would even slightly entertain that thought, as if the very existence of it offends him, but he does not except taking a deep breath and smile.

 

“Of course not, Will. Do not confuse me with pedestrian killers like your dear Garrett Jacobs Hobbs and Dolarhyde. I am not ruled by what happened to Mischa, it did not turn me into the killer I became. I ate my victims because I loved the sense of absolute power it gave me. I took their lives, I could do whatever I wanted with their bodies as well, and turn all the people around me into perfect accomplishes. Killing them felt like settling a secret score between myself and God. If he could take Mischa in the most horrible of ways, then I could take and destroy whoever I wanted.”

 

Hearing it all so clearly, spelled to him in harsh and charged words leaves Will numb for a moment, sitting perfectly still in his seat, breathing ad quietly as he can. People tried to uncover the secrets of Hannibal Lecter for decades, the best minds of the FBI struggled for years to make sense of the Chesapeake Ripper, and now that he knows the truth... Will realizes that it is only the top of an iceberg that he might never see or fully understand.

 

“And what were you thinking about when you decided to eat me? What purpose my body would've served?”

 

His voice is a whisper that would be better suited for nighttime confessions, and that clashes with the grey light of the day that filters from the windows. Hannibal takes another deep breath, tilting his head to the side as his eyes focus on the droplets of rain that are falling on their car. Will feels out of place, like his questions, his doubts and the constant ache he carries with him in his heart don't belong to him anymore, but to someone who died a long time ago.

 

But he doesn't want to carry around that ghost. His past life will not become his Mischa. Maybe that is why he needs answers.

 

“To be quite honest with you, Will, I am not entirely sure I have a solid and definitive answer to your question. Perhaps a part of me wanted to devour you so I could finally own you, repay all your countless rejections by keeping you inside of me forever. And another wanted to be free of you. In that moment, I thought that killing and consuming you would've finally ended the cycle of dependence and loathing we shared. But it seems that I was wrong.”

 

“Because what we share is more than just that, isn't it? And it cannot be just erased by the death of one or both of us.”

 

Hannibal smiles widely now. They did not touch at all during this whole ordeal, yet now Will feels the need to reach out and put a hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin even through his thick jacket. The man takes it between his own hands, massaging it with a gentleness that feels almost unbearable.

 

“Isn't it sad that it took us so much time and blood to realize this simple truth?”

 

Will ponders the words for a long moment, inhaling deeply as the warmth of Hannibal's hands spreads to his fingers, rubbing against his skin in comforting motions. It doesn't escape him that it should be the other way around.

 

He should be comforting Hannibal now, after the weight of his past has been unloaded and both of them had to face the truth without hiding. Yet he takes this small gesture without any complaint.

 

“Maybe it was inevitable. There was no other way for us to come to this point without destroying everything else we had in our lives. Sometimes I ask myself if something could've been changed, but I come back empty handed every single time.”

 

Hannibal nods absently. Will looks at him and wonders if he should appear different to him now, after all he heard. The truth is, he doesn't: to him, he's still only a man, one that used to look like the devil to him, but that now is starting to slowly morph into someone he could see himself spending his life with.

 

He inhales deeply, staring at their hands clasped together as if they're both trying to hold on to the other. Touching never came easy between them, not even at the beginning, when Will was trusting and naïve. It always came with feelings and emotions he was never sure how to sort out and properly collect. So every one of those moments has a deep meaning, and this is no exception. 

 

“But sometimes I wish I had asked you to tell me all this years ago, when there was still so much that we could've saved. If I look back, and think of all the pain we caused to each other and to other people... I wonder if knowing what you just told me back then would've changed the choices I made.”

 

Hannibal holds his hand tighter, locking the rest of his words inside his mouth: Will looks at him and the man shakes his head, as if he knows far too well that his guilt is pointless. 

 

“Don't, Will. Please, stop doing this to both of us. The time when looking back to our past choice served any use is over now.”

 

It's brutal to realize how much they lost. If they dwell on that for too long, Will is afraid the weight of it will drag them down and suffocate them. Maybe they can get some of that time back if they look forward instead, and after all, it is the only way they can go now, after all that happened.

 

He takes a deep breath and nods.

 

“Let's go home now, yes?”

 

Hannibal smiles as he lets go of his hand and turns the car back on.

 

\-----

 

They circle each other in nearly complete silence for the rest of the day, with Hannibal locked up in his study for most of the time, and Will collecting his own feelings while lying down on the couch. The fireplace warms him, as does the heavy blanket, and he slips into a state half way through wake and sleep.

 

Is this how Hannibal felt like as he was about to freeze to death in that lost cabin, surrounded by nothing but snow and the deadly silence of the Lithuanian forest? Weakness overwhelming him enough to make him forget his grief, hallucinations giving him the opportunity to communicate with the dead.

 

Memories of Abigail's ghost following him around during those long months of hunting and grieving come back to him. She felt real to him during those moments, alive and present like no one else did. Everyone else was a shadow, leaving behind nothing but a faint impression that would disappear right after. But her words, the sound of her voice, her scent and the feeling of her body next to him was all that could still anchor him.

 

Will takes a deep breath and rubs his eyes, feeling exhausted and drained in that same way working for the FBI used to make him feel. Only now he has time to process what happens around him, without being dragged back into hell with his older wounds still bleeding, and his mind and soul brittle and fragile.

 

There's some comfort in knowing that he can hide from the world even more now, and let himself heal. Everything has been moving at a painfully slower pace during the last few months, as if the world itself is trying to give both of them a break.

 

His eyes scatter the room until the finally land on the three solitary framed pictures sitting undisturbed on the fireplace's mantle. They all portray Hannibal's aunt, a relic of the past of the house that no one ever dared to disturb. The blind gaze of the woman in the photographs stares back at him from different angles: the front door, on the beach below them, and riding a horse. 

 

He knows it's futile to try to find some resemblance of Hannibal in her. Her Japanese traits are the complete opposite of his, yet in Murasaki's elegance, in her cold and distant beauty, Will catches glimpses of the same qualities he sees in the man when he peels off the masks.

 

Will knows about Mischa now, yet the woman in the pictures and how deeply her presence in his life and their later separation affected Hannibal remains a mystery to him.

 

“Beautiful, isn't she?”

 

Hannibal's voice startles him, and Will adjusts himself on the couch as the man sits down next to him. It took him the whole afternoon to finally come out from hiding in his study and face him. He wonders what will happen now.

 

Something about the way his voice sounds is oddly intriguing. It has a longing and nostalgic taste to it, a note of reminiscence that seems to be the common theme of this day.

 

“Yeah, she is.”

 

“I was actually the one who took two of those three photographs. I remember the one where she was standing in front of the house as clearly as if it all happened just a few moments ago. I was seventeen, living with them for less than a year, and to win me over my uncle bought me a quite expensive camera. That was the first picture I took with it. There was nothing more beautiful to me than my aunt standing in front of her house, smiling carelessly, back then. After living through hell, that was paradise. I remember the way the sunlight would reflect on her dark hair, her soft spoken voice and her kindness. It took me a long time to get used to kindness once again.”

 

Will looks at the picture again, with new eyes this time. It is in black and white, and the gentle softness of it seems to seep through despite the lack of colors. Like a diffused radiance that brightens it up.

 

“Were you in love with her?”

 

All Hannibal does is smile at him in that knowing way that usually precedes confessions. They used to be hard to take for Hannibal, because they forced him to confront himself with different parts of him that Will wished to ignore, or that made him realize just how alike they were.

 

Now they have the taste of secret moments they share to build something lasting together, despite what happened before.

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

Will shrugs, keeping his eyes on the picture despite the itching he feels to turn his head and look at Hannibal. He isn't entirely sure what made him ask that question. Maybe just his empathy kicking in and reaching out in the dark to try to sort out Hannibal's feelings, putting them into words he can understand.

 

Whatever it is, both questions now hang between them, and the space is filled by Murasaki's presence, even if only through her picture. 

 

Hannibal, when he realizes that he's expecting an answer, takes a deep breath.

 

“I often ask myself if I was truly in love with her or only fascinated with the idealized love I held towards her. Murasaki was the first person to show me kindness in years. She represented a new life, far away from the grief of my youth, even more than my uncle. When I was alone with her, and even from the very start that happened often, I could feel that odd kind of peace that comes from the knowledge that words are not needed, that silence is a blessing to be treasured. I am not sure she ever completely understood me, but she tried, and that made me love her, yes.”

 

Will can picture it more clearly than he'd like to: a young, wounded and already far too riddled with secrets Hannibal slowly being charmed out of his pain by his aunt's caring presence. He tries to remember if this is what being with Molly felt like for him. Maybe it did at some point, when he could fool himself enough to believe that their life together would last.

 

But that sense of peace brings him back to the first time he saw Hannibal again in front of the Primavera, after looking for him for so long: the perfect silence around them in that moment was so absolute and so deep that nothing else could ever compare.

 

“Did she love you back?”

 

“I like to think that she did, yes. She loved me enough to leave me, but protect me from afar. What we shared was being two wounded animals desperately looking for a place we could call home. After my uncle died, all we had was each other. I thought nothing was ever going to change between us, that our peace could last forever... but things, sadly, cannot stay the same forever.”

 

“And what changed?”

 

The underlying implication of the question is far too clear to both of them: what made him become a killer, what twisted whatever was left of him after Mischa's death and the orphanage to point where murder and cannibalism were the norm for him, just another part of his life? 

 

“I did.”

 

And the answer is equally stern and simple, almost blunt. Will could read whatever he wanted in it, could imagine whatever version of reality he preferred. Hannibal doesn't explain himself, because, the truth is, there is no explanation. It look a long time to accept that for him.

 

Will rubs his temples and crosses his legs under him, resting against the back of the couch as Hannibal's eyes focus again on the pictures on the fireplace. Will knows he probably will never manage to know much more about what happened between the two of them, not now at least.

 

Yet her presence still lingers, as do all the questions and answers that Will isn't sure will ever see the light of day, not even now that they are alone and sharing with blunt honesty their haunts.

 

“Have you ever tried to see her again?”

 

Hannibal shakes his head.

 

“I haven't. Oh I wanted to, don't get me wrong, especially at the beginning of our separation. But I forced myself to respect her decision. She left me, and running mindlessly after her was not going to ever bring her back to me. So I let her go, and with her, I left in the past that part of my life.”

 

“You didn't let me go when I left you.”

 

His voice doesn't sound bitter or angry at all, he realizes with almost a sense of surprise. He's simply stating a fact, and his tone is calm, almost resigned. Murasaki had the strength to do what he never could: to severe that umbilical cord that binds him to Hannibal even now after all that happened between them.

 

Will envies her and pities her at the same time.

 

Hannibal sighs and then smiles knowingly.

 

“Yes, I didn't. Perhaps because I knew you did not really want me to let you go.”

 

At that, Will says nothing.

 

\-----

 

That night, Will slips into Hannibal's bed for the first time since London. The gesture is quiet and simple, and the man lying next to him does nothing but smile softly and take a deep breath with his eyes closed. 

 

They can both hear the sea below them, the wind slowly and lazily rustling through the leaves. And they can hear each other breathing in the half-darkness that surrounds them. Hannibal turns on the side to face him, his hand sliding over Will’s stomach almost casually. It's Will's turn to sigh now, but he doesn't move. He's warm, and that contact through his shirt is oddly comforting.

 

It would have bothered him once, disgusted even, to be touches like this, to allow Hannibal so deep into his personal space and especially where he's most vulnerable. Yet now it feels normal, and Will isn't sure if he lost or acquired something by changing his attitude. It's most likely a mix of the two, as usual between them.

 

Hannibal just stares at him for the longest time, his eyes scanning his face in search for any vulnerability, for possible emotions itching under the surface of his skin that he can use.

 

“And what about you, Will? Do you have any hidden confession that you'd like to make?”

 

Will laughs, adjusting himself on the bed to be slightly closer to him. The man doesn't give any appearance to have noticed his gesture, even though Will’s absolutely certain he did.

 

“I'm not you. I don't have any skeletons in my closet left that you don't know about. You've skinned me so deeply, removed so much of my defenses that I'm not sure there's still anything left for you to find out.”

 

“Oh, Will, I really do not believe that to be true. I think I have only scraped the surface of what is still hiding inside of you.”

 

He takes a deep breath and looks away for a moment, staring into the darkness above them. They'll never stop being a puzzle to each other, no matter how their relationship changes and evolves into something new and different from anything it was before, in the old life they left behind. Hannibal will still try to get under his skin and dissect all his secrets. But without the rabid fury that use to animate him.

 

Will guesses that it is a start, at least.

 

“No long lost significant others you regret abandoning? Your wife, for example?”

 

He inhales deeply at the mention of Molly. It's one of those themes that Hannibal still enjoys to poke and rub, just to see if it still hurts. Will doesn't give him the satisfaction of looking away from him, however. He keeps looking at him almost defiantly, and to that the other man smiles.

 

Yet he can't bring himself to tell him the truth, that Molly has been almost never in his thoughts lately. There is part of him that still misses her, the gentle love she was capable of and that apparent peace he had with her. But it grows smaller and smaller. His memories are tainted now, and many are already fading into the oblivion. Yet that would still be too much to admit. It would give Hannibal too much power, way more than he has now.

 

“I have been thinking about my father a lot lately. It feels weird. It hasn't happen to me in a while.”

 

This seems to peak Hannibal’s interest way more than any mention of Molly would have. Hannibal sits up a little bit to have a better look at Will, his eyes almost glowing in the golden light that surrounds them.

 

“You never spoke to me of him.”

 

Will shrugs, not sure because he's trying to dismiss the topic or distract himself from focusing on it.

 

“We weren't really in contact for many years after I left Louisiana. He resented me for leaving, I resented him for being an absent parent. I didn't miss him during all those years; yet in the back of my mind there was always this thought, I have time. I can patch things up to him whenever I want. I have time. Somehow it never occurred to me that, in fact, I did not. Now I regret that I never even tried to have a relationship with him. But it's too late now, so I guess there's no point in recriminating about it.”

 

Will can hear Hannibal quietly breathing next to him, with a barely concealed grin on his face that doesn't promise anything good; the same one he used to have during their sessions together after he had been released from the hospital. And his voice is equally sugar-coated and insidious at the same time when he speaks.

 

“What stopped you from reaching out to him before it was too late?”

 

“Some of it was my pride I guess, my resentment for how I grew up. Then a sense of laziness kicked in. My life was so full, so busy and complicated already, why bother adding another weight to the pile. And when you arrived in the end.... well let's say I had more immediate concerns to worry about. My father just slipped outside of my mind. God, it sounds so horrible once you actually put it in words.”

 

Saying it all out loud now, somehow gives a concrete form to the thoughts about his father that had been layering inside him. Will ignored them for years, pretended they didn't exist and that the deterioration of his relationship with him did not mean anything to him.

 

Yet now he feels that void so much more amplified, pulsing inside of him painfully. It's odd to realize how much of what he's feeling now resonates with all that Hannibal told him today. Being together at all times is slowly melting down the few barriers that were still standing and connecting them on a much deeper level.

 

Will misses his father now that he knows he'll never see him ever again, his life as it used to be only now that is lost forever. Something must be twisted beyond repair inside of him.

 

He closes his eyes and waits in silence for Hannibal to say something.

 

“I wish you had told me all this years ago.”

 

“And what would've that changed?”

 

The man next to him shrugs, but he's still smiling and there's that twinkle in his eye that brings him always back to those few months where Hannibal had been the only source of stability in his life. It feels so far away now. Three lifetimes away from where he is now.

 

“Probably nothing, considering what came after. But it would've been a demonstration of how much you trusted me at that time.”

 

Will has to look away for a moment, closing his eyes to stop himself from slipping into those memories. He takes a very long and deep breath, and suddenly in his nostrils he can smell the polished wood scent that permeated Hannibal's office in Baltimore, can hear the cracking of the fireplace in the distance and feel that atmosphere once again on his skin. The mirage lasts only a moment, before it vanishes. Something about it seems to linger in the air, however, and Will wonders if Hannibal can feel it as well.

 

“Maybe it's a sign of how much I trust you now.”

 

Will looks back at him and sees him smiling, in a victorious way that is at the same time hateful and welcomed.

 

Hannibal stares at him without flinching, his hands still resting on his stomach in perfect immobility. Will forces himself to hold his gaze, despite how deeply those eyes seem to cut inside of him. A sudden exhaustion overcomes him, making his limbs feel heavy and his temples pulse painfully under the skin.

 

Will wonders if Hannibal ever feels tired, if the weight of his own mind and past ever becomes too much even for him. It's debilitating to hold in as much as they do, it's always incredible to him how they are capable of putting one foot in front of the other.

 

It'll get easier in time, that's what he tells himself to keep pushing forward without falling apart.

 

“If you could see your father again, what would you tell him?”

 

Focusing on the right words, on the feeling they want to convey is not easy, especially while being firmly under Hannibal's scrutiny. There are moments when he struggles to even remember his father's face, the raspy and old sound of his voice. The barrier he built to keep them separated worked far too well and it's hard to cross even now.

 

Memories flood into him and he’s forced to relive all the choices he wishes he could make again, all the words he wishes he could take back, and the void he feels hurts him. 

 

“I don't know. Maybe I'd ask him if we can start anew and fix whatever it was that was broken between us. Or I would just hug him, tell him that I'm sorry for all that never worked out as it should have. There are things that cannot be planned, words that have to come from your heart. I don't know what would be in my heart if I ever saw him again.”

 

Hannibal nods. Then he goes back to lie down on the bed, the heat of his body still close to Will’s own, but somehow removed now, as if he's distancing himself from him to think, to hold inside himself all that happened today. He closes his eyes, but doesn't fall asleep just yet.

 

If he closes his eyes, Will can almost hear the working of Hannibal’s mind, the wheels turning as he takes in everything slowly. The lines on his face relax, his body lets go and Hannibal becomes so perfectly calm and still that he has to resist the sudden urge to put his head on his chest to rest there.

 

The elegant beauty in Hannibal that for so long he tried to ignore, to repress together with every feeling towards him that didn't come from a place of hate and resentment, hits Will once again as they lie there in silence, and Will allows his eyes to focus on it, forgetting all the rest. 

 

It's something he was forced to let go as soon as he decided to stay with Hannibal. He broke down the time that held it all back in the deepest recesses of his heart, and now he has all these deep emotions to sort out.

 

Hannibal opens his eyes slowly, his chest rising and falling under his hand.

 

“I understand regret far better than you would think, Will. I live with it at every moment. You must not allow yourself to be swallowed in it. The memories of your father will still continue to exist even without that emotion attached to them. Maybe, in time, you might rediscover some that you thought you had lost.”

 

“Is this what you tell yourself when you think about Mischa?”

 

The man smiles sadly.

 

“I am afraid not, sadly. Most of the times I simply dwell in that feeling, let it overcome me before I finally come back to my senses.”

 

Will watches Hannibal turn off the light without saying anything. His last words left a deeply melancholic aura around them that feels almost comfortable, still so deeply rooted in the past they're trying to leave behind.

 

Will thinks that they can allow themselves that for tonight. They can sleep together, feeling their bodies close, merging their warmth and dream of ghosts until the sun rises.

 

Hannibal places his hand back on Will’s side, waiting for a second to see his reaction before he squeezes it lightly. Will closes his eyes and falls asleep listening to the sea below them.


End file.
